


Perchance to Dream

by thegraytigress



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-09 07:23:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 47
Words: 409,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1973985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after the War of the Ring, a surprise attack on Cair Andros pits Legolas, Aragorn, and Faramir against a ruthless tyrant. All of Gondor is plunged into a brutal war with a cunning and violent adversary, and only their strength and faith in each other can save them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Sleepless Night

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings _is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.__
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> **RATING:** M (for violence, mentions of rape, dramatized scenes of war)  
>     
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Hi, everyone! This story goes way back (way back like numerous pennames and more than a decade, which makes me feel old – where has the time gone?) It's the first time I've reposted it in ages, but considering I think it's probably the longest and most complicated story I've ever written, I decided to let it see the light of day again.
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> _Set two years after Return of the King, this is a dark tale of ambition, war, and cruelty, and it explores the level of love and friendship needed to overcome the worst of adversities. Obviously, because this was written so long ago, what was revealed or hinted about Legolas' background in _The Desolation of Smaug_ won't be included (which I suppose makes this AU?). I considered changing things around to be more in line with that, but his relationship with his father and family is an important factor to his character in this story, so I let it lie. Be advised – there is a fair description of violence, rape (nothing is described in detail), and torture, so read at your own discretion. But if you stick with me, I promise there's a happy ending!_  
>  _

**PART ONE**

_To die, to sleep_  
No more, and by a sleep say we end  
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks  
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation  
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep,  
To sleep — perchance to dream — ay, there's the rub,  
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come  
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil  
Must give us pause.

—  _William Shakespeare,_ Hamlet _, Act III.1_

Autumn had come early, or so it seemed to Legolas as he watched the painted leaves of Ithilien threaten to tear loose from the grasping fingers of the trees. The Elf stood upon the balcony of his room, letting the cool wind soothe his nerves and hopefully caress into his heart weariness strong enough to allow his riled mind some rest. Though dawn was barely beginning to warm the eastern skies, he had been up for what he knew to be hours. The prince closed his eyes and leaned into the cold stone of the ornately carved railing. Long, slender fingers lightly traced the smooth edges, searching for imperfections in the stone, but there were none to be found. Legolas smiled faintly. Gimli had certainly meant what he had long said about turning the ruins of a human empire into a work of Dwarven art.

He opened his eyes and turned. Though Elves were hardly afflicted by cold, he shuddered. The chilly breeze that brushed by his bare chest and raked icy fingers through his hair seemed touched by something else.  _Something dark,_  he thought grimly, and he looked up to the dark hues of the slowly brightening sky. He expected to see an ill omen, a dangerous sign or a glint of a terrible fortune nigh. But there was naught, only a serene, quiet moment filled with the beauty of a world restored. The dawn of a new day filled with promise and expectation. Legolas sighed. He was beginning to believe he was losing his mind.

He stepped back inside his room, his bare feet making no sound as they fell upon the stone. The rock was so unyielding to the soft flesh of his toes, and he wriggled them, still unaccustomed to this place. Only two years had passed since the fall of Sauron, since the Free Peoples of Middle Earth had reclaimed their right to peace and liberty. To an Elf, the passage of two years meant little, a proverbial drop in an ocean of eternity. Yet, for the first time in his long and experienced life, Legolas was beginning to feel the press of days passing to night. So much had happened in these last years. So much…

The Elf prince slid back into his bed and drew the crisp sheets up and over his chest. Then he drew in breath after breath, closing his eyes and sinking into his pillows. He closed his eyes and vehemently sought to forget the chaos his life had of late become. It had been nearly a year since Aragorn asked him to help rebuild the forests of Ithilien. The dark forces had for centuries strangled the great woods, leaving a dying husk of a once mighty and beautiful land. It had been well enough, he supposed, that the new king of Gondor had approached him with this monumental task. The War of the Ring and all of its dangerous and difficult struggles had been a convenient distraction. It had diverted his attention from the inevitable truth. The Elves were leaving Middle Earth. Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn of Lothlórien, Lords Elrond and Glorfindel of Rivendell, Elves of each nation, of all types and creeds… they were all gone. Even his father and brothers. Legolas turned over, opening bright blue eyes. Blankly he watched the shadows of the curtains play on the wall with the breeze. Still, some of his kind remained. The Lady Arwen, of course, and her twin brothers, though of late Legolas had not seen them. Some common folk of the Golden Wood. Those of Mirkwood that had resisted the call of the sea. Many of the Elves that still lingered in Middle Earth had joined him in this small colony in Ithilien. And yet… Legolas released a long slow breath. At times, especially lately when the restoration became an endless burden and ruling his newfound people was turned trying by inexperience, he wondered if it might not be better to simply let this go. At times, he felt so alone.

Legolas turned over again to lie on his back. Absently his eyes followed the lines of mortar and sealant worked in between the stones of which the ceiling was composed. The pattern reminded him of a cage, or a net.  _Stop this now,_  chided his mind. He drummed his fingers on the bed, frustrated with himself. He was not alone, and though the call of the sea was forever a part of him, he had learned to control it. Though there were moments when he forgot it, it never left his heart, a silent whisper in the back of his mind that sang a tale of gulls crying, of waves crashing, of the whistle of wind rushing over water. Legolas' will was strong enough now to fight, but what truly caused him despair was its black inevitability. Eventually he would lose this war against his fate, even if the battles now were easily won. He thought of his father, of warning words spoken in the heat of an argument.  _"Legolas, my son, you think with your heart and not with your head! If you stay in this world, if you live among them, it is your forfeit. They will gain little for your sacrifice. Trapped here, your life will be torn asunder. If the sea-longing does not destroy you, your bonds to these mortals will be a storm that rips from you everything our kind promises. It will not end as you wish it, Legolas. It cannot!"_

The Elf scrubbed his eyes tiredly. Ai, for the terrible paradox into which his life was evolving! Now it was but a faint nightmare of the future, one he could dismiss if he so wished. But he knew it would destroy him. Each day he spent building this colony… he wondered at this choice he had made. What did he hope to accomplish, at any rate?  _Defying fate. There is no greater folly!_  Why did he linger in a world that no longer welcomed him?

But as always, when his mind was rendered a storm of turmoil by these matters, he returned to the same answer: his friends. How could he leave them? His long friendship with Aragorn had only grown stronger since the war, since the man had become king. With Arwen, the Queen and Lady Evenstar, he enjoyed long talks and quiet moments. He was one of Faramir's closest and strongest allies, and the two had spent much time together in amiable discussion as they created a nation worthy of the prosperity promised in the Fourth Age. He was not as close with Faramir's lady, a noble maid of Rohan called Éowyn, for to him she still donned the same cold mask that he had witnessed come his arrival in Edoras years prior. But with even Éowyn he found solace and companionship, for though the striking woman bore an air of cold detachment, Legolas had learned her heart was warm and bright. And Gimli… dear Gimli. Legolas winced at his father's booming voice.  _"A Dwarf! You forsake your family for a Dwarf?"_  Old prejudices never died, it seemed, and the words had hurt him deeply.

In private, Gimli, as the stout warrior often did, had read Legolas plainly. It was an irritating skill Gimli had developed; it seemed the Elf prince could hide nothing from the perceptive creature. He pictured the small, ruddy creature now, his face dark with thought as he puffed on that putrid pipe of his. They sat in quiet a long while before Gimli finally spoke.  _"He says what he does because he loves you. As rude as the King of Mirkwood may be, he is a father at heart."_

A strange thing! Who could have foretold the unlikely alliance between them? The wince slowly became a grin. Though he was much troubled by the ebb and flow of things around him, he treasured his time with Gimli, when they argued and bantered over the merits of Elves and Dwarves and trees and rocks, when they sat quietly in companionable contemplation, secure in a relationship that required no masks or formalities. He treasured his time with them all. What was it that Merry the Hobbit had said when he had first seen the sea?  _"You must not go to the Havens, Legolas. There will always be some folk, big or little, and even a few wise Dwarves like Gimli, who need you."_

Legolas sighed. The conflict within always ended as thus, with this hope. He was needed. And if not, he  _needed_  them. It was enough for now to placate the anguish within his slowly tearing heart.

He only feared the day when it would not be.

And so he tried once again to sleep. He lay and thought of Mirkwood, the great trees restored to their former beauty and majesty. Green leaves singing to his kindred spirit, boughs strong and protective. His mind wandered to Ithilien, to this hurting forest. Its melody was darker, weaker, but he and every Elf that struggled to return to it light heard its call. Therein came the true predicament, the actual source of his anguish this eve. As it was the night before this, and two nights ago as well. Legolas closed his eyes and fought to isolate this tension that denied him rest. An inkling of evil. The caress of a threat, like the smell of an ominous black storm about ready to sunder the land. For days this had plagued him, but he could neither make sense of the feeling nor credit it with any validity. His colleagues and comrades in Ithilien appeared relaxed and oblivious, but for all his effort, he could not convince himself this foul premonition was the product of exhaustion. The Elf rolled over once more, tucking his arms under his pillows. He thought he heard voices on the wind, angry tones lined with malice and thinly veiled ambition. A black future. In a heart beat, it was silent. Legolas buried his face into his pillows and cursed his imagination. He was not an Elf gifted in foresight. This was undoubtedly borne from exhaustion and stress. Still…  _I am going mad._

He lay in a numb trance for a bit, trying to sink into a thoughtless, dreamless daze. Lethargically, sleep emerged from the void for him. Even so, a long while passed before the Elf slipped away.

* * *

There was a knock at the door.

Legolas sprung up from bed so quickly that he wondered briefly if he had slept at all. He gasped and glanced around, grotesquely disoriented. He could not recall dreaming, but the haze of what must have been a terrible nightmare was slow to release him. A blink and a gasp.

"Lord Legolas?"

Slowly he regained his breath. A terrible knot of panicked fear slowly that was once his stomach unwound, and he struggled to slow his thundering heart. His equanimity, so characteristic of an Elf, was fleeting.

"Sir?" It was Velathir, his aide. The elder Elf's muffled voice was filled with concern. It was very unlike his lord to not answer immediately. "Are you well, sir?"

Legolas shook his head as if to clear it. Astounded, he slid from the mess of sheets and stood. So rarely had he felt this riled! "Yes, Velathir," he called. His voice sounded bizarrely alien to his ears. "I am fine." His long legs devoured the distance between himself and the large oak doors. He grasped the cold knob and pulled open the thick slabs. The aide appeared before him, pristine and calm. A disturbed and concerned looked passed over his dark eyes. "What is it?"

Velathir spoke quickly. "It is Prince Faramir, my Lord. He requests your presence immediately."

Legolas' smooth brow furrowed in confusion. "For what purpose?" he asked softly.

The Lórien Elf shook his head blankly. "I know not, my Lord."

Legolas stepped back into his room, shaking away the remnants of sleep from his irritatingly muddled mind. "Tell him I will be with him momentarily," he ordered, and Velathir nodded before ducking from the room and closing the door. The prince glanced to the window. The last shadows of night clung to the land, and the first light of dawn shed gold over the leaves and stones. Legolas shook his head. He really had not slept.

He dressed quickly, methodically but without conscious direction. From his cluttered and tired mind he pushed all other concerns. It was still quite early, too early for the day's business to begin. He was to meet with Faramir for lunch that day and discuss the plans for new housing in Ithilien for men and Elves alike. Legolas doubted the mundane and simple matter had inexplicably and unexpectedly become so pressing that Faramir would wake him for it. His thoughts raced with the possibilities as he placed his feet into his boots. He wrapped his belt, the one his father had given him when he had come of age, around his waist tightly, securing the buckle. He smoothed his long, flaxen hair quickly before gracefully exiting his room.

The manor of the Elves was quiet. Many had not yet risen, and those who had began the day's activity with no hustle or bustle. Legolas nodded briskly to those of his colony he encountered in the corridors as he quickly made his way to the entrance hall. In the blink of an eye the troubled young archer had transformed into the stoic Elf lord. Legolas had never counted himself overly regal. He lacked his father's stern decorum and attention to detail. He felt uncomfortable delegating orders to Elves many years his senior, and he lacked the gall to rule a kingdom expertly with a tight hand as Thranduil had done for so many years. Centuries of training in the ways of the court and war had done little to aid him; the natural talent to lead was simply not there. Still, he did his best to guide what remained of Elf-kind on Middle Earth. They looked to him, the son of the last king of Elves, the friend and comrade of the King of Gondor, a hero of the War of the Ring. He tried very hard to be what they desired, to be who they needed.

To them, he was infallible. He did not like the image, but he also did not disarm them of it. His father had always told him respect was a valuable tool, but adoration and deification forever tied a people to its leader. Rebuilding Ithilien was a colossal task, and it required the cooperation of every Elf, man, and Dwarf involved. He could not appear to have doubts about their purpose here, even when the sea-calling assailed him with uncertainty. Even now, when this strange and persistent warning pulsed all around him, he could not afford to seem weak.

But Faramir was far too astute. "Are you well, Legolas?" asked the young lord upon seeing his Elven friend. Legolas was shaken by how easily Faramir had detected his distress. Faramir was quite bright, with intelligent eyes and a lean face that portrayed a rarely false air of seriousness.

The Elf drew in a deep breath. "Aye, Faramir. My dreams have been dark of late, but they are so without reason and I am weary of it." A look of concern crossed the man's lightly bearded face, and at seeing it, Legolas went on, desperate to change the subject. "You have arrived most suddenly. Do tell me: is there ill news in Emyn Arnen that has wrested from you sleep this night?"

Faramir's face grew dark, and the years returned to his face. The two lords had recently grown close, bound by both friendship and allegiance to Aragorn and a common goal. Legolas greatly respected Faramir. The man had an analytical mind, the sort that was naturally conscientious about even the most mundane of matters, that could easily parse emotion from purpose and see clearly. He had a brilliant intellect, one Legolas knew had been molded and nourished by Gondor's massive libraries of lore and Gandalf's encouraging hand. The Elf greatly admired him. At times, he felt hampered by memory of Boromir, Faramir's brother who had died during the war. He worried that he would one day bear the resentment the younger of Denethor's sons might hold for him, as he was one of the few that witnessed Boromir's demise and failed to stop it. He also thought perhaps he made Faramir slightly uncomfortable, noting awkward silences when Faramir made a pointed effort at trying to ignore the Elf's presence. Although he did not know why, Faramir's guarded actions around Legolas at times heightened the Elf's guilt over Boromir's death. However, they both cared too much for their friendship to allow the ghosts of the past to challenge it.

Faramir grasped Legolas' arm and drew the young prince away from the growing crowd of soldiers and pages. His voice was barely a whisper. "Word reached me but a few hours ago. Cair Andros has been attacked."

Legolas stopped suddenly. Shock mulled over him. "Attacked?" he repeated incredulously. "By whom?"

Faramir's face twisted into an angry, confused scowl. "I know not. A wounded soldier was found outside my manor. The town is burning, razed. No indication of survivors."

The pale face of the Elf blanched further. More than five hundred peasants, tradesmen, and soldiers inhabited the outpost. A slow rage was beginning to shake him, uncurling from the pit of his stomach. If no one survived, the attack was a massacre, a cowardly slaughter. Legolas tightened his hand into a fist. "No survivors?"

The other shook his head sadly. "I pray the reports are wrong."

Legolas felt weak with alarm and rage. "Have you informed the King?"

Faramir nodded curtly. "I have sent forth my fastest riders to Minas Tirith. But I hope you agree that we cannot wait for a response. We must take action. If some yet live, they face terrible odds should the enemy return. Will you ride with me?"

_Perhaps I never awoke… Perhaps this is a nightmare still…_  "Of course, Faramir. I can spare some warriors as well, but not enough to support a charge if–"

"Hopefully it will not come to that," Faramir said resolutely. The lord of Ithilien closed his eyes. It was clear he as well had slept little that night. "We leave as soon as you are ready."

Legolas nodded slowly, digesting the situation with a numbed mind. "If your men have not yet eaten, they are welcomed to the dining hall. It is early, but the cooks have surely begun the day's work."

The two lords were silent then, watching the halls of the wood Elf lord come alive with this new day. Golden spirals of sun shot through the windows, bright and cheery with dawn. All around came the ordered commotion of the Elven colony. Men and the Firstborn melded, joined in their work to build together a life in these woods.

Legolas shook his head and narrowed his eyes darkly. Neither he nor Faramir spoke a moment, but both knew the fear that was left unvoiced. All for which they had aspired, all for which they had labored… Who now threatened their peace?

Then the silence became unbearable. Faramir clapped Legolas on the shoulder, his expression soft despite his worries, his grip warm and friendly. "Thank you, Legolas," he murmured softly and sincerely. After he walked quickly to his men. Legolas watched him speak to his company quietly and felt the world close upon him. A cold, fall breeze pushed through the open gate doors and brushed against him. It smelled of fire and burnt flesh. The fair Elf stifled a shudder before tending to his duties.


	2. Signs of Life

The ride was long and arduous, dominated by a silence stiff with anxiety, anger, and fear. In the quiet, hope remained. Their small company followed the Anduin north with great speed as Faramir was terribly worried that the grim prognosis that none of the villagers had survived the attack was false and those that remained would desperately require aid. A vacuous emptiness had settled upon them, and no one had the strength to break it, as if with speech the tiny speck of faith each garnered within would fade and leave nothing but a horrible and undeniable truth. They would not be in time. They were already too late.

Legolas breathed deeply, his keen eyes quickly scanning their surroundings. The stench of smoke and death had grown steadily stronger, its putrid scent a trail that would undoubtedly lead them to Cair Andros. Though the others could not see, he observed the haze forming on the horizon, the sort of bleary and scorched air that reeked of a smoldering blaze. From this vantage he could not detect the town, for though they were now atop the rolling hills that eventually descended into the river basin, the tall trees obscured his view. The woods were eerily silent and the fair Elf wondered at their queer stillness. The dark warning in his heart had grown steadily stronger with each step their company had taken since leaving Ithilien. His face he kept calm, so as not to disturb the others, but he knew something dangerous awaited their arrival.

Arod was still and erect beneath him. The great horse sensed the malice as clear as he, for this animal, borne of the skillful breeding methods of the kingdom of Rohan, was no ordinary beast. Gifted to Legolas during the War of the Ring by Éomer, now King of the Riddermark, Arod had formed a powerful and loving bond with his Elven rider. The two had braved many perils together since the white stallion had come to Legolas' care. Only in death would the prince abandon his valiant mount.

Animals were oft more perceptive than men and even Elves. Arod pricked his ears, listening perhaps to some distant cry or squeal. Legolas listened as well, but sensed nothing. His fingers stroked through Arod's gray mane gently. "Peace, my friend," he whispered in Elvish. "We will know soon enough."

Their company continued down the sloping land, which was still mostly lush with the verdant green of summer. Faramir had chosen the most trusted of his rangers and men to accompany them, and they were a well-seasoned lot, most veterans of the war. Legolas recognized a few faces, in particular that of Beregond, head of the White Guard. The man was of a kindly disposition, always helpful and never arrogant. His face was square and adorned by a graying beard. A long scar, a relic of a battle long past, stretched from his left eyebrow and down to his ear. Eyes that were inquisitive and quick observed all from under a hood of bushy eyebrows. Beregond held the king's highest esteem, as he had been delegated with quite an important duty: protecting the Steward of Gondor, even if it meant sacrificing his life for Faramir. Now the man rode beside his charge on a horse of brown, speaking to Faramir in hushed tones. On the Prince of Ithilien's opposite side was Mablung, another experienced ranger. Wavy brown hair framed a round face. Legolas knew little of him, only that he had been instrumental in saving his captain's life when Faramir had been wounded during the siege of Osgiliath. It was clear from the friendly loyalty and respect in Faramir's company that their captain was a man of great wisdom, dignity, and admiration.

Of his own, Legolas was a bit more uncertain. For the group he had selected Tathar, one of his father's guards who had chosen to remain on Middle Earth when all of Mirkwood had emptied. The blond Elf was many years his senior, but Legolas was comfortable enough around him to speak his mind and share his fears. He was a mighty and seasoned warrior, one of Mirkwood's finest archers. The prince had been greatly relieved to know such a loyal and worthy Elf would lend his hand in Ithilien's restoration. A few others from King Thranduil's army rode with them as well, and in their hands Legolas would readily place his life. It was a pact of devotion that had long governed the workings of Mirkwood's forces. The Elven nation had been too close to the choking black of Dol Guldur for too long, and the prince himself had witnessed many Elves die over the years when the forces of the dark pushed closer to all that remained beautiful in the once proud forests of Greenwood the Great. In such horrible conditions, no Elf could afford not to trust his comrades.

However, of the twenty Elves joining him on this journey, the rest were a bit of a mystery. Names, of course, he knew. But of their skill, of their courage, of their hearts, he was less confident. These were citizens of Rivendell and Lothlórien, whose armies had not readily tasted battle for perhaps centuries, whose customs were different from Mirkwood's own. He did not doubt their allegiance, but he was uneasy around them nonetheless. Here again they expected a leader when he was naught but a soldier. Would they abandon him should his leadership prove less than worthy? He banished those thoughts.  _This is not Mirkwood. Nor is it Rivendell or Lórien. Do not let the different colors of our banners divide us!_

Every Elf in Ithilien would fight and die with him if need be. That was what he believed. Until now, there had been no occasion to test such a thought. He wished one had never come.

The Anduin was calmly rushing south, the waters bright, clear, and cold. Summer no longer warmed her waves. These forests were newly touched by the changing season, bright oranges, yellows, and reds glowing as the sun streamed through the canopy overhead. Their group had assumed a standard position as they pushed through the maze of conifers and oaks. A column of horse and rider stretched along a narrow path, so as to both minimize noise and muddle the tracks they left. Should enmey forces follow their trail, they would be perplexed as to exactly how many soldiers formed their company. An old trick, but an effective one.

A message came from the scouts at the forefront. Legolas nudged Arod forward urgently, seeking to join Faramir and Beregond as they received the information from a scout.

The young man shook his head sadly. "I've had men searching these woods, Lord, for any that might have fled to their security. We have found nothing."

That was discouraging. Cair Andros was an important outpost for Gondor as it was situated rather strategically on a small island in the center of the wide and grand Anduin. If the retreating citizens had not found refuge in the surrounding hills and forests, it meant they had been trapped on the island. Faramir was obviously considering the very same bleak notion. "Does the bridge seem safe?"

The scout reined in tighter his mount, for the horse was prancing about quite nervously. Legolas felt Arod tense beneath him. "We saw no obvious signs of weakness, Captain. It appears sturdy enough for use."

Faramir's eyes narrowed in contemplation. "Tell the men to hold their positions, and do so quietly. I would like to remain hidden as long as we are able." The young man gave a quick salute before kicking his skittish horse into a trot, heading back through the thinning woods to the head of the column.

Legolas drew Arod aside Faramir. Black and dark were the songs of these trees though the day was bright with color and life. "What say you, Legolas?" Faramir inquired softly. The man had not missed the Elf's wary, scanning eyes and tense form. "Do you perceive any threat?"

Legolas strained his senses, listening, watching, waiting. Yet nothing more was delivered to him aside from the cautious melody of the wind pushing against these ancient trees. The silence of the animals in the woods disturbed him. "I know not. This land seems frightened, but of what I cannot say."

Beregond shook his head. "My Lord," he began, holding Faramir's gaze, "we know little of our enemy here. We must execute extreme caution. It would be a simple task for them to lure us across that bridge, trap us on the island, and then ambush us." Legolas watched the man clench his jaw in determination. His statements were not meant to dissuade his lord and captain from the rescue; rather, the experienced soldier was frustrated with their obvious predicament. The Elf sympathized completely.

Faramir lowered his gaze to the back of Hasufel's neck. The great gray warhorse as well seemed on edge. It had taken some time, Legolas remembered with a private smile, for the ranger to tame the fiery animal. Once loaned to Aragorn during the War of the Ring, Hasufel had been made a wedding present of sorts for Faramir from the brother of his wife, Éowyn. Though Faramir had been known throughout Gondor for being able to govern both man and beast, the ranger had once revealed to Legolas his vexation concerning the stubborn Hasufel. Now, after two years, the two had seemed to reach some sort of truce. Hasufel was truly a great horse, though not as tame or willing as Arod. However, what he lacked in obedience he certainly accounted for with fiery personality.

"Sir, if I may conjecture, now is the time to act if we so intend," offered Mablung. "Night will inevitably be upon us. At least at this hour the sun is still our ally, and we can clearly survey the situation."

Faramir nodded at the suggestion. He looked up, holding Legolas' bright gaze, as if searching the Elf for doubts unspoken or knowledge hidden. Legolas' face was placid as he declared, "Time is short. If the enemy is so cunning as to make a lure and trap of this attack, I doubt we are safer here than on the island. We have come this far, Faramir."

The Prince of Ithilien wondered at this a moment, his piercing eyes narrowed in distant thought. In the silence, the strange stasis of life in these woods seemed especially unnerving, and Legolas angrily considered the deafening quiet a veiled threat.  _This place reeks of danger, though whether passed or imminent…_

Eventually Faramir's expression hardened, and a furious glint came to his gray eyes. "This crime against Gondor will  _not_  go without retribution. Let us ride in, but with guards upon the flank and rear. All shall bear arms."

Mablung gave his commander a curt salute before whipping his horse around and heading to the front of the line. Beregond's weathered face became dark and tense with anxious excitement before he too rode off to issue his subordinates orders.

Legolas drew in a deep breath, feeling unusually tired and jittery. Two years of peace had dulled his taste for battle, and he appreciated the peril of this situation far too keenly. He checked his sword to be sure that the blade came smoothly from the scabbard. The familiar weight on his back reminded him of his full compliment of finely fletched Elven arrows and two white knives to which he had thankfully taken a whetstone just days prior. He was well equipped for a battle he had prayed would not come.

"What are your orders, my prince?" It was Tathar, and from the set of his jaw, it was clear the Silvan Elf's intuition had already alerted him to the company's status. Dark eyes watched Legolas intently, yet the young prince did not miss the glow of exhilaration in them. It reminded him of days of old, when he had been but a child eagerly accompanying his elders on one of his first hunts.

"We move to the island," Legolas quietly said. His quick eyes glanced down the line of mounted archers under his command. "There is no indication of an enemy presence, but we will take no chances. Guard well our rear, Tathar, and have them ready to attack on my command."

"Yes, sir!" the Elf declared with the smallest bit of a knowing smile. The gesture eased Legolas. After offering his prince a nod, Tathar directed his horse back to the group of Elves patiently awaiting instruction. Legolas watched them a moment, observing his people test bow strings and examine arrows.  _His_  people. He did not know if the thought pleased him.

Then they were moving. The silence that again descended over their company was wrought with apprehension and muddled hope. None knew what terror might await them in the once peaceful outpost, and the fear and worry was thick and heavy in the air. Legolas felt his body tense, his muscles tight with adrenaline and the expectation of exertion, his senses diligent in their unwavering scan of their surroundings. The scent of smoke, so strong and close now, repulsed him, the grime stinging in his eyes. It descended upon them, creating a mist of hazy heat and stink that obscured from them their path. Arod grunted and Legolas leaned down to pet the horse's smooth neck. In reality, he felt no more sure of this than his mount.

They reached the river. Faramir issued the order to cross the bridge, and they proceeded with heavy hearts and infuriated minds. Unease permeated through the group as they directed their horses along the stone road in pairs. The smoke was thick now; a few of the men choked, though whether from lack of breath or from the terrible stench Legolas could not tell. The gray, misty plume covered the bridge like a funeral shroud, hanging down to caress the dark water below with wicked, wispy fingers. The hollow lapping of the water as waves broke on the feet of the bridge and the steady clopping of hooves against stone was incredibly loud. No one dared to speak.

The silence endured. Worry became shock. Shock became horror. And still there was nothing.  _Nothing._

Legolas gasped. Something inside him began to throb as the mist parted.

Cair Andros, once a thriving fort with hundreds of healthy, happy denizens, had been completely and utterly destroyed.

Along the stone road there must have once existed a bustling market place, made wealthy and prosperous through trade and devoted work, content in the quiet peace that had claimed much of Middle Earth. All that remained of that peace was a line of burnt buildings, the debris spreading far and wide. Scorched by flame, the structures had been devoured by heat and left to collapse as wood cracked and stone crumbled. Blackened frames poked from the rubble like broken bones that had punctured the skin of a corpse. The path was cluttered with wreckage, for nothing, no house or inn or stable, had been left standing, many tipping forward to cover the road with their destroyed innards. Tables, chairs, and clothes lay strewn everywhere, some burning still, as though these simple articles were the last of the city to abandon the fight. The smoke hung so heavily and so low that the sun's light barely pierced the oppressive veil. Blood covered the street in a ghastly river, corpses strewn about like worthless rag dolls. Most had been gutted. It reeked of blood and death and stale, violent sex.

All was still with disbelief. No one could direct his eyes elsewhere, each examining the wreckage in all of its gruesome, horrid detail. Legolas could find no air to breathe, a vacuum of terror and disgust closing tightly about him. There was no sound, no feeling. This paralyzing shock struck him, and his heart held tight in his chest as his numbed mind fought to deny. So desperately he fought the terrible, pressing reality! Perhaps if he closed his eyes, perhaps if he wished vehemently enough, he would find himself back in his cool, soft bed, waking from troubled sleep. But there was no such easy escape. The destruction lay bare before him, and for all the want of his heart, he could do naught but stare.

For a long while no one had the audacity to speak. It seemed an eternity as the despair ate at all of them, as their souls shriveled in bearing witness to such brutal and violent destruction. Then came the sound of gagging; one of Faramir's younger men had lost his composure and had stumbled from his horse to the ground, heaving. Legolas' eyes slipped shut. "Ai, Elbereth…" he whimpered, imploring that this somehow not be true. All those innocent people… Women and children… So many… He closed his eyes against the tears.

Who could have done such a thing?

Troubled hearts pounded, straining for something more. Yet there was nothing but the suffocating silence and smoke and the remains of a people slaughtered.

It was Faramir who finally regained himself enough to speak. His voice hardly wavered, though Legolas could tell the young man was exerting himself to keep his fury and grief in check. "Fan out," he declared as resolutely as he could, "and search for survivors. There may yet be men alive… buried perhaps." Legolas bowed his head but found no hope in Faramir's words. This vicious force had come to destroy, and it had done so completely and utterly. The Elf prince had seen and experienced much in his long life, but never something so… arrogantly cruel and atrocious. He shuddered.  _Evil. Evil has come to Middle Earth once more._

* * *

They were sluggish in their task, and understandably so, for it was a terrible one. Their company was comprised of approximately thirty souls, and they had split up to encompass the entire city in their search. Cair Andros was not overly large, but the task was strenuous and difficult as many of the buildings eaten through by fire had collapsed, leaving large heaps of smoking debris through which to dig. The day had worn to late afternoon, and they had nothing to show for their efforts but bloodied hands, worn bodies, and wearied hearts.

Legolas sighed. Soot covered him, painting his ashen face with gray smudges, leaving his normally pristine appearance uncharacteristically filthy. His fingers were caked with the grime as he shoved a broken and scarred table from the wreckage of yet another ruined house. Flakes of charred wood fell from a smoking beam overhead, dropping into his hair like black snow. He wondered for a moment on the safety of venturing further inside. The flame set to this house had smashed through to the second floor, eating through the ceiling and reducing the eastern wall to a mound of fallen stone and split beams. Miraculously, the western side had been left relatively intact. However, the second story overhead, without support on one side, had begun to sag and sink. The whole structure whined and moaned precariously.

The Elf glanced inside, but it was very dark. The sun was sinking below the horizon, leaving shadows to skulk and grasp the world. He wrinkled his nose. How he longed for a cool breeze to blow the horrid smoke and release them from this stench! Yet the earth ignored his plea, and the wretched plume hung over them, relentlessly plaguing his nostrils and hindering his sight. He stood in the door, debating on the consequences of continuing. The grisly images from previous homes had burned into him. Many of the poor folk had been in bed when the attackers had struck. Most had not even made it outside their front doors before their houses were invaded. He had seen men, stabbed and mutilated, holding still to swords and daggers in what was certainly a last, terrified defense of their families. He found women, naked and bleeding, clearly ravaged and beaten before their throats had been cut. And children… The fair Elf clenched a fist. The disgust and sorrow was quickly melding together within him in a storm of fury. At first he had clung to some shred of hope that their search would not be in vain, that buried and trapped in this nightmare was somebody in need of their aid. But as the hours had worn away, despair had stomped out that faint wish, and he had slowed in his frantic efforts and taken time to pull some of the bodies from the wreckage into the street. He draped cloth on those he could, felt for those he could not, and whispered an Elvish blessing for each soul that had passed. He did not know if Faramir intended to bury the citizens, but even so, it seemed terribly wrong to leave them in the prison where they had been so viciously murdered.

Legolas looked down, leaning tiredly against the door. The stoic mask he had worn all day for the benefit of his people and Faramir's men was beginning to slip, but he was too tired and depressed to care much. No warning. No salvation. Inexplicably he felt guilty for these poor people and what they had endured. He wished he could have somehow done more.  _There is no cause for that,_  reminded the logical voice of his mind.  _You could not have known._  His heart, however, accepted no such rationale, content to weep in grief. He was exhausted enough to let it.

He lingered there, breathing, trying hard to find the strength to keep looking. To keep fighting. He decided to move on; this house seemed empty, and he did not know if he could tolerate another gruesome death scene. But his weary feet would not carry him. A needling voice came from the back of his mind, a voice saturated in worry and shame. Fate would certainly turn against him if he should leave this one house unchecked.  _Here_  would be the one person left living, he just knew it in his gut. And he could not walk away from that small, nearly impossible chance.

So he walked inside, over fallen chairs and broken furniture. Gracefully he navigated through the maze of wreckage, pushing aside what he could and stepping over what he could not. The second floor whimpered in stress, dumping a load of soot on his already dirty body. He could not stifle a paroxysm of coughing, the foul tasting stuff invading his nose and mouth. When that passed, he drew in a deep breath of cleaner air and rubbed his eyes.

Someone was crying.

His heart jumped into his throat, a rush of excitement leaving his head spinning and his pulse thundering. For a moment he doubted his senses, waiting, holding his breath and praying that the sound would come again. Surely he had not imagined it! But it did come again, a muffled wail. Immediately he located it.

With renewed vigor spiking through his tired body like lightning, Legolas bounded forth, shoving away anything and everything blocking his way. The high-pitched sobbing was coming from the kitchen, where a large, scratched oak table had been pushed up against the wall, obviously for protection. "Help has come!" he announced. "Please, hold on a bit longer!"

The screaming continued. It was obviously a child. Panic pulsed through Legolas as he frantically scrambled to the small area, climbing over the counter. His feet struck the floorboards with a soft thud, and a terrified shriek followed. Legolas felt the color drain from his face. He was standing in a puddle of blood. His eyes followed the gory trail under the overturned table.

Disgust barely had the time to register. With strong hands, he pulled it back.

His eyes pierced the shadows. Pale flesh stained red. A ripped and ruined dress. Red hair. The woman was laying on her stomach, her cheek pressed to the hard floor, her green, soulless eyes wide open yet unseeing. Legolas felt nausea claim him, selfishly grateful that she was prone so that he could not see the substance of her demise. A great pool of blood lay under her.

A piercing shriek broke the silence. In the corner sat a little girl. Though much of her form was covered by shadow, Legolas' heightened sight could perceive her easily enough. She appeared to be no more than four or five years old. A mess of wild red hair adorned her small head, sticking up haphazardly. Her chubby face was streaked with tears, grime, and blood. Her knees were drawn up to her chest. Her little hands covered her eyes as she sobbed and wailed.

His heart broke. He dropped to a crouch. "Shh, child. All is well. I will not hurt you," he declared softly, comfortingly. He dared not move, uncertain if any motion would startle her. He surely did not want to traumatize her further! "You are safe now."

The girl cried for a bit longer, but then stopped and peered through the cracks between her fingers. When her wide, teary eyes came upon him, he offered a gentle smile. They did not speak immediately, Legolas keeping his body perfectly still so as not to frighten her. Finally she murmured. "Are… are you a ghost?" Her Common was sloppy and slurred with youth and fear.

The thought amused him slightly, and the corner of his mouth turned in a smile. "No." She had obviously never seen one of his kind before, and his natural glow baffled and amazed her. "I am an Elf," he said evenly.

The child's face scrunched up in terror. She started to weep again. Legolas could hardly stand to hear her wails of anguish and winced at their volume. He crept closer, extending one hand to her. "Do not cry, little one," he pleaded, shaking his head helplessly. "Let me take you out of here. Surely you would like that?" The little girl only cried harder. In her gasping sobs Legolas could make out the word "mother". The Elf grimaced inwardly as he discovered the truth behind his fear. This was the dead woman's daughter. He could not even begin to imagine her pain.

There came a thunder of feet outside. Legolas peered over the wreckage to see a few men standing at the door. "Lord Legolas," one with deep, baritone voice called, "we heard crying! Are you well?"

"Summon your captain," ordered the Elf firmly. "I have found a child."

The two men glanced between each other, clearly surprised. Then one called, "Aye, sir!" He disappeared from the door.

The other stepped inside, and the house groaned. Legolas shook his head quickly. "Stay back. This house is unstable!" The man stopped in his tracks and watched helplessly. Then the Elf returned his attention to the girl. She had squirmed further into the corner. He obviously terrified her, and he frankly found no fault with that given the situation. He calmed himself and turned his hand over, showing her his open fingers and palm in what he hoped was a disarming action. He forced a smile to his face. "What is your name, little one?" he asked, his mind racing to find a way to calm her.

She sniffled and turned her face into the wall. But she did speak. "Fethra."

His heart shuddered in relief. He smiled at her. "Fethra, my name is Legolas."

She swallowed. "Leglass."

He gave a small laugh. "Good enough, little one. I promise I will do nothing to hurt you. You must trust me, Fethra. We are not safe here." He held her gaze, determined not to let her go now. "Just take my hand."

"Momma won't wake up," the girl whispered. Tears welled in her bright, green eyes.

Legolas ached inside, panic swirling within him as the second floor cracked and creaked overhead. He said, "Your mother is in a wonderful place now, Fethra. She would want you to be safe, would she not?" The little child nodded fearfully, her face puckered up with a barely restrained sob. "Come with me. I will keep you safe."

A board snapped and the ceiling lurched down a few inches. Legolas jerked, but did not look up, knowing that if he should frighten her now they would lose her.  _I will not lose her!_  He held his breath, praying that there would be time enough to escape this house, that she would trust him enough for him to save her.

Finally she reached out a trembling, little hand. This she slowly placed in his open palm. Nearly sagging in relief, he closed his long fingers about her tiny digits. Wide, fearful eyes regarded him. "I'm scared," she admitted, her voice shaking.

"Nothing will harm you," Legolas assured. He reached out his other arm and moved closer, dipping his knee into the chilly puddle of blood on the floor. The girl hesitated a moment more, but it was clear that the promise of security his arms provided won over her fear of him. She launched her small, quaking form into his embrace. Burying her face into the warmth of his shoulder, she began to wail again.

The Elf wasted no time. Wrapping his arms tightly around the precious burden, he propelled himself up with strong legs. Over the counter he flew, graceful and elegant despite his panic. The ceiling was crumbling, raining splinters of wood and dust upon him. It snapped. He bounded through the mess, flying faster than the observing soldier could detect, precariously stepping around the debris on feet swift and light. The supports gave away with a booming and horrific crack, and down came the second floor.

But Legolas was already safely outside. He stood quite some distance from the door, watching as the house destroyed itself. The noise of the collapse was deafening, a great plume of soot, smoke, and debris spraying from the structure. A few rushed breaths of surprise and relief passed, and when it settled, there was nothing left to salvage.

The only thing of any value was in his arms, at any rate.

Faramir jogged up to him. The young captain appeared winded, breathing heavily. He had obviously run here when receiving word from his men of what had happened. Legolas shared with him a pained look of jagged relief and despair. Fethra's cries were quieting, her tiny fists balled in Legolas' hair, her face nuzzled into the nape of his neck.

"Send for the healer immediately," barked Faramir to his men who stood about watching in stupefaction. One broke from his daze and headed off in a run. Then the ranger stepped closer, clearly to get a better look at what Legolas had found, but Fethra was too upset for that, and she pressed her face deeper into Legolas' shoulder, holding onto him with all her strength. "Are you well, Legolas?" Faramir inquired quietly. The Elf only nodded. The ranger looked down and shook his head. "We found no one else."

The words struck hard. Shaken, Legolas wrapped his hand around the little girl's back. He held to her tightly and wondered at the cruelty of fate. To leave an innocent child as the sole survivor of the massacre of her entire city…

He closed his eyes against the tears.


	3. Blood on His Hands

Evening came, but it was without peace. Both man and Elf were restless, though exhausted emotionally and physically from the day's journey and difficult subsequent events. One of Faramir's rangers had spotted a bit of high land in the fields just outside the town proper. There they had prepared a camp and created a perimeter. The land was not much, but hopefully it would provide an advantage should they be attacked. The prospect of ambush alone was enough to cast an air of unease. But this night it was simply one more worry, one more fear, one more thought that would steal sleep.

Legolas sat cross-legged on the ground beside the healer's tent. In his lap rested Fethra, and the little girl was hungrily devouring some dried meat and fruit. She was quite content now, happily filling her famished body. Legolas smoothed her mussed hair comfortingly as the healer finished with his work. She kicked at elderly man as he checked the dressings he had previously wrapped around a lacerated leg. "Sit still now, Fethra," Legolas admonished, his tone gentle but stern.

The little girl regarded the healer with wary eyes, half a piece of apple in her mouth along with most her fingers. She would allow no one near her, save the Elf, and Legolas was not sure how he felt about that. In the few hours since he had rescued her from the collapsing house, he had become rather protective of her himself. He had little experience with children; few Elves in Mirkwood had chosen to bear to offspring after his own birth given the unstable state of Middle Earth and the race's waning existence in it. He knew even less about the infants of mankind. And yet, despite his nervousness and anxiety, he found himself pleased with this trust she had given him, this tentative bond between them. His heart felt great and warm that she considered him her protector. If he could ease her loss and suffering, then it was reward enough to endure a bit of awkward fumbling.

Such adoration and open faith shone in her red-rimmed eyes as she turned. She looked as though she might begin to cry again at his small scolding. "Sorry, Leglass."

The Elf smiled warmly. She still could not pronounce his name right.

The healer finished his ministrations. "She is well, my Lord. I see no signs of infection, but upon returning to Gondor, she should be examined again for precaution's sake," the man said. Legolas nodded at his assessment, pleased that his charge was relatively intact. Aside from the mild cut on her leg and few benign bruises, the poor girl had escaped the slaughter unscathed. The prince's muddled mind did not want to consider the implications of  _why_  or  _how_  she had survived. Could luck have been so kind and destiny so compassionate? Had he not been so angered and grief-stricken, he would have been more bothered by it all. As it was, he was simply satisfied at the moment that someone was alive.

He nodded his gratitude to the healer as the other rose. The man afforded them both a sorrowful look that spoke much of his despair where his lips would not. Only one left alive. Only one. Legolas imagined the man's frustration. What use were the skills of a healer when there was no life left for which to care? The man then turned and headed back to the main camp.

No fires had been lit this night for fear they might attract unwanted attention, and the company rested in a tense, sad silence. The night was no comfort to their battered hearts, though the stars shone brightly above. Like a million teardrops they dotted the sky, twinkling their condolences, weeping their sadness. A cool autumn breeze swept over the field, ruffling the waves of drying grass. At least here the air was fresh and crisp, a welcomed change from the stench of smoke and death.

Fethra shivered. Her thumb was stuck in her mouth. Legolas did know for certain, but he believed her to be rather old for such behavior. Still, after what she had endured, he was not about to deny her any solace she sought. He grasped the ends of his dusty cloak and wrapped her tightly in his arms, using the cloth to shield her from the chill. He often forgot the frailty of mortal bodies and their susceptibility to changes in temperature.

"Where do Elves come from?" she suddenly asked. She laid back into his chest, obviously happy for the warmth. Legolas thought her surprisingly calm, given the ill circumstances.

"Well, Fethra, Elves live all over Middle Earth. I am from a great, wide forest far north of here once called Mirkwood," he explained. "Now it is Greenwood the Great."  _Eryn Lasgalen._ He heard something in his voice, and it surprised him. It was a touch of longing, of wistful memory.

She was silent a moment. "Do you miss your home, Leglass?" The girl was extremely perceptive for her age.

He was taken aback by her innocent question for a moment, and he thought before answering. "Yes. No one lives there anymore, but I still think about it."  _Everyday I think about it._  The Elf drew a deep breath and closed his eyes in weariness. The conflict of emotions within him battered his mind. So tired, memory swept in, taking advantage of his lowered defenses. He heard wind rustling in the trees, the great, wide canopies of his father's kingdom. He heard voices, comrades of old, family and friends. They were all long gone, and he felt alone, horribly alone. And unexpectedly the longing for the sea swelled up within him. He heard the waves lapping against the shore, the cry of gulls, and a voice spoke to him, fathomless, faceless, soundless. But he heard the words and understood their call. Deep inside, something began to throb in agony. Pulsing. Pulsing. Waves beating against the shore. He lost himself in it. Pulsing.  _Pulsing_  –

_Come, my son._

"I miss my Momma, Leglass."

He snapped to awareness. He opened his eyes and felt again. The cool breeze on his skin. The smell of fresh air and the sounds of men lowly chatting. The grass beneath him. The child in his arms, begging him to bring back her lost mother. He was  _here_ , on Middle Earth. The attack had taken him so quickly! Shaken, he drew in a deep breath to calm himself. Never before had it been so vivid, so powerful…

"Leglass," moaned his charge. He looked down, unnerved, frightened, and angry with himself. Tears streamed from Fethra's eyes, and she wept silently, burying her face into chest. "I miss Momma," she whimpered. Legolas helplessly shook his head, his heart straining in muted agony. "I want Momma…"

He could not deny the truth, no matter how much it hurt her. "She is gone, Fethra. I cannot bring her back to you." He squeezed her tighter as she began to cry again in earnest. He could only let her sob, trying to comfort her with soft words and strong arms, but he felt terribly inadequate. He could not change anything! But he forced his fury away and desperately thought back to when he had been young, when he had been upset. His mother had been a glorious, wise, and beautiful Elf, a worthy queen for a powerful nation. She possessed a voice like none other, one that brought laughter and tears to the soul with a simple melody. Whenever he had been distressed, she had sung away his troubles. Then sleep had become an easy matter. How many times had he drifted into dream listening to his mother's sweet melodies? "Did your mother sing to you, Fethra? Do you have a favorite lullaby, little one?"

She was too distraught to answer him, so he picked a song of his own accord, frantic to do something to ease her misery. Then he began to sing softly, rubbing the little girl's heaving back. All Elves were talented singers, and he was no exception. His father had once told him he had inherited his mother's gift for music. His clear voice rang through the silent camp, warding away the demons and bringing a bit of gentle splendor back to a ravaged place. Though the song was in Elvish, it had the desired effect of calming Fethra. Gradually her sobs became sniffles. The song flowed from him, easing both Elf and child, and soon enough, before the ballad had ended, the child had drifted off into slumber.

The Elf prince closed his eyes and silenced his voice, battling his own weariness. He was not so cruel as to move her now; he would not deny the girl the peace she had finally found, so he waited there, sitting still aside the tent. He knew he was being irrational, but he could not dismiss that his slightest movement would disturb her slumber. Blessed by great patience and endurance, he would normally be able to hold such a posture for many hours. But he was tired from riding from Ithilien without repose and searching through the wreckage earlier. He was wearied by countless nights of unrest. A general malaise claimed him, and his body was aching with a dull intensity he had not often experienced. He thought of his trials as a Nine Walker and the many times he had held a weary or wounded Hobbit as he now did Fethra, guarding Frodo from winds on Caradhas, easing Sam in the dark of Moria… He had been a silent sentinel, a steady protector, a tireless warder. He missed those days as well at times, for though the journey had been dark and difficult, he had formed such tight bonds with the Fellowship of the Ring. Then he would never have considered his own comfort over those he had sworn to defend. Then he would never have doubted the others' need of his eyes and bow. Then he would never have questioned his worth. But he did not have the worries then as he did now.

Torn by such thoughts, he sat a long time in silence. Eärendil winked at him knowingly and sadly. So distant, safe from the toils of life and death… he envied the star its peace, its ancient wisdom. Long fingers absently stroked the head of ruddy curls nestled against his shoulder. The small chubby face, recently washed clean of the dirt and grime, was a picture of contentment, long eyelashes pressed tightly to soft skin. The Elf brushed a stray hair from the child's cheek with his thumb, amazed at the simple picture of beauty. She was endearing and entrancing, and he was in awe of this simple feeling of compassion and love come over him. Her trust of him was like a balm to a weary soul. She cared not for his inexperience with children. She shed light enough for them both at the moment.

A zephyr flowed up over the hill, pushing aside the loose fabric of Fethra's stained brown dress. A glint caught Legolas' eyes. He moved the ripped collar down a bit from the child's neck. There was a long, silver chain, the sort that might hold a pendant or some other such trinket. Curious, he carefully pulled free from the folds of her clothing the rest of the object. Sure enough, it was a necklace of sorts, though clearly intended for an adult as it hung far down her chest. There was indeed a pendant. It was a diamond-shaped dark red gem no larger than half the length of his thumb. The back of the gem had been cut flat and encased in glimmering silver. Legolas narrowed his eyes. He was not very knowledgeable of the science of metallurgy, despite his father's interest in wealth and jewels. Still, he had never before seen such a rock. It seemed to glow of its own volition, shining a dim, deep red quietly. He held the pendant so it rested in his open hand. The light washed over his palm like blood.

Legolas released a slow breath. How would a child come to possess such a thing of majesty? It seemed no ordinary trinket, far too elegantly crafted to belong to simple folk. A strange feeling came over him, leaving his body tingling and his mind dazed. It was not unlike the very same sense of unease that had been plaguing him for days, but this sensation was without the itching need to do  _something_  to remedy it. This simple stone… it was beautiful, drawing his willing eyes into its crimson deaths, and he willingly obliged its call for his attention. With his index finger he traced the tiny curve of it in wonderment and shameless curiosity. It was quite silly, but he expected to feel heat. Like a tiny heart beating in his palm, he thought there would be warmth and life. But it was merely a stone, and he was letting his frivolous and fatigued imagination have far too much control.

"Prince Legolas?"

He nearly lurched in surprise. He looked up, collecting himself quickly and dropping the pendant to Fethra's chest.

It was Tathar, and the elder Elf enveloped his prince with a concerned gaze. Legolas felt embarrassment twist at his innards. He respected Tathar like none other, for long had the warrior been his mentor in thought and war. They were silent a moment before Tathar spoke again. "Lord Faramir requests your presence. He has found something he believes you should see."

The request bothered Legolas, and after a brief pause, he realized why. He did not want to leave Fethra in the care of another. Though he trusted Tathar with his life, the little girl hardly knew the warrior. Would she be frightened if she awoke without warning and found Legolas gone? Would it too easily remind her of all she had just lost?  _You fool,_  seethed his mind.  _You are a prince and a lord. You have obligations beyond this silly task you have taken upon yourself. Up, now, and see what Faramir needs of you!_

As if sensing his prince's indecision, Tathar offered a warm, friendly smile. "I will watch her. Should she awake, I will send for you." The wise Elf crouched beside the two. A twinkle came to his dark eyes. "I have sensed your troubled heart ere we left Ithilien. You wear it plainly enough, with such dark eyes and long face! Your father would not approve of this despair, my prince," he chided, a light tone of mirth betraying the gravity words. "You are our lord. You need not worry if that is enough to justify our trust in you. It is." Legolas bowed his head, struggling to find some semblance of peace. Tathar rested a hand on the crown of his head, just as he had done centuries prior when Legolas had been but a child learning the ways of war. "You are your father's son, Legolas. A king's son. Never forget that."

It felt so good to hear that. It was like reaching through the dense murk of sorrow and doubt in his heart and grasping tranquility. He smiled. "Thank you, Tathar." He checked to make sure Fethra was deep in her rest before handing the precious bundle to his friend. The other accepted her easily and then nodded resolutely. Gracefully, regaining his stoic air, Legolas pushed himself from the ground and went off in search of Faramir.

He found his friend speaking in hushed tones to Beregond and Mablung in a small huddle away from the rest of the camp. He approached on soft footfalls, slipping through the blades of tall grass like the wind streaming silently across a meadow. Faramir turned, his skills as a ranger alerting him to the nearly silent approach of the Elf.

Legolas regarded his friend with weary, understanding eyes. Faramir was greatly angered and greatly troubled. But before the archer could speak, Faramir asked, "How fares the child?"

"She finally sleeps, though with much sadness and toil pressing upon her." Legolas' inquisitive eyes grew hard with quelled anger. "What is it you have found?"

Faramir restrained ire of his own as he stepped aside and allowed Legolas to see beyond him. There, resting almost innocently on the ground, was a flag. The banner was bright red, lined with gold on its top and bottom. The design of the standard was immediately recognizable. A picture of that same golden serpent had flown high in the wind at the Battle of Pelennor Fields. Legolas clenched his teeth. Fury washed over him, hot and wretched. "Easterlings," he hissed.

"Aye," said Beregond, his tone tight and terse.

The four said nothing then for quite some time, each staring at that simple red banner and fuming. They all clearly knew the implications of such a finding. Legolas dug his fingers into his palm as rage pounded in his heart and head. He saw blood, blood as red and bright and violent as that cursed flag, wash the streets of Cair Andros, spill from innocents, cover the floor in Fethra's home…

"Where did you discover this?" he asked. His voice sounded hoarse and rough to his ears.

Mablung responded with, "Upon the city post, where the standard of King Elessar once flew. This was on the ground, buried in a pile of dead soldiers." He held forward another flag, this one ripped and soaked in liquid. The black glistened wetly in the starlight. Rage was the only thing Legolas knew as he took the destroyed banner. The White Tree of Gondor was drowning in a sea of midnight and blood.

The sticky slime stained Legolas' hands with gore as he clenched the ruined cloth tightly. "Why?" It was all could manage, lost in a storm of anguish.

Faramir's face was wrathful. "It is a message. They meant for us to find this standard. This attack is a warning, a warning of war to come," the ranger declared without the slightest hint of doubt in his voice.

"They would not dare attack Gondor!" said Beregond, astonished at the very thought.

"They already have," Mablung answered grimly. "Our King will not stand for such an act of cowardice and violence. Word of this will reach his ears, and then open war will be all but unavoidable."

Legolas doubted Aragorn would be so hasty to attack. He had known the heir of Isildur far longer than any present, and he considered Aragorn to be a man of great strength, courage, and wisdom. The king would not rush foolishly into a conflict whose opponent was more mystery than fact. Of the Easterlings no one knew much, save that they had been the corrupt and vile servants of the Dark Lord Sauron. The nation of Harad was said to be cruel, brutal, extremely clever, and wicked in combat. Their government was shrouded in secrecy, their society hidden from the eyes of the most skilled of informants. Long had they been at odds with Gondor, the conflict ancient and bitter. Legolas knew the story well enough. The treachery of the Easterlings began with Ulfang the Black. During the ill-fated Battle of Unnumbered Tears during the First Age, the duplicitous men betrayed an alliance with Caranthir, one of the sons of Fëanor. Caranthir had been killed when Ulfang had severed their allegiance. At least, that was the tale. A great hatred had festered over the centuries between the forces of Gondor and the Easterlings, and it was clear the latter still allied themselves with that remained of the black forces in Mordor.

Something about this situation did not sit well with the Elf, but again he could not decipher the source of his strife. This seemed too obvious. Faramir clearly thought the same. "This vexes me, for it makes little sense. The Easterlings have not the number to risk war with Gondor. They suffered more egregious losses during the War than we did. They must know of our superior strength. We would obliterate them on the battle field," mused the captain.

"Perhaps the times afford them no other option," surmised the irate Beregond. He took the ruined flag from Legolas, folding it as carefully as he could in a sad respect. "They stand alone now, and their dark way of life is threatened in this new age. Perhaps they have no choice but to act in a last violent attempt to save their kind."

 _Perhaps they are simply monsters and nothing more._  The bitter thought felt good to Legolas, appealing to this newfound fury boiling within him.

Faramir shook his head, obviously displeased with the entire matter. His eyes were distant, clouded with thought as he undoubtedly tried to unravel this macabre enigma. Then he broke from his thoughts and looked to his companions. "We leave at first light."

Mablung said, "Sir, are you certain that is wise? We are unprotected here, and we should not tarry in delivering this news to King Elessar."

Looking blearily south, Faramir sighed. The man was weary and frustrated. "I like this no more than you, Mablung, but the men are tired and hampered with worry and grief. A few hours of rest will hopefully be enough to ward away the pain so that we may be clear in our objectives on the morrow. And an attack on the road is no more appealing than an attack here." Warm gray eyes met bright blue. It was clear Faramir was seeking his approval. Legolas was not sure if he agreed with Faramir's reasoning, but he saw the complexity of the problem. There were few options, and none offered more advantages than drawbacks. This plan seemed as good as any. He nodded firmly.

Faramir released a slow sigh. "Let us take some rest then." The ranger offered his comrades a sad smile. "We certainly need it."

From there the Elf bade the men good night. His feet directed him back to the section of the camp the Elves had acquired. His mind was lost in a swirl of exhaustion and emotion. He found Tathar waiting for him. Legolas regarded his trusted comrade with weary eyes. "At dawn we depart. Reinforce the perimeter with as many watches as practical."

A question was poised on the warrior Elf's lips, but he chose not to speak it and instead handed Fethra gently to Legolas before dispatching his orders.

The prince was on the cool ground before he had even thought to sit. He smiled softly, despite his anger and grief. The child still slept soundly. He reached into his discarded pack for his blanket. He leaned back, resting his head on his bag, laying Fethra's slumbering form beside him. Making sure his weapons were within reach, he then pulled the woolen quilt up over them both. He released a long breath, trying to relax his body and clear his mind. And the horrible pattern continued, this night no different from the one before. Would he never escape this terrible insomnia?

A frustrated tear escaped, rolling slowly down his temple. Sleep would not come.

* * *

_Wake, Legolas! Wake!_

The haze in his mind snapped, and he opened his eyes. Yet there was no one there, and the camp was silent. The Elf drew a deep breath; the dreamless void into which he had inadvertently slipped was slow to recede from his consciousness. A slow panic curled in his stomach. Then the voice came again, and the dazed prince realized then it was no voice at all, but the rustle of the leaves, the moaning of limbs in the cold, night wind. The trees were speaking to him.

Fethra had pillowed herself on his arm, and he found the limb heavy and tingling from her weight. He checked her briefly to see that she was well before dislodging her small body from his and climbing to his feet. He glanced around, searching for signs of danger and walked a bit down the hill. His quick eyes scanned the dark pasture. He could clearly see the forests from here, the thick woods creating a wall of trunk and leaf around the grassland. The canopies glowed in the moonlight, but Legolas knew it to be a false harmony. Inside his spirit was alive with discord. The hum of life within him rose in alarm, the trees whispering in rushed, fearful tones to their kindred soul. He carried a tighter bond than most Elves with the earth, a love deep and cherished. With them, he shared the substance of his soul. He had no doubt their song of threat was very real and very eminent.

The wind picked up, reeking again of smoke. His acute senses strained for any evidence to substantiate this powerful foreboding. Silence. Then the whining of reeds in a harsh gale. The soft thunder of many feet hitting the ground. Men speaking, whispering, but not in Common. He felt cold disgust and alarm brush over him.  _Black Speech._

Legolas turned and bellowed,  _"Ambush!"_

An arrow flew through the air and struck one of the men on watch in the neck. He gave an ear-piercing shriek before falling to the earth. It was still for a moment, time suspending its endless march to allow the dismal truth to sink into the Elf. Legolas stared at the limp body, praying that he would detect some motion, the rise and fall of his back, the twitch of a finger, anything! But the man was dead.

A rain of sharp and deadly arrows descended upon him, and the prince snapped into motion. Elven sight could easily trace the path of the lightning shots, and he ran through them with ease back to his comrades. Through his teeth he gave a sharp, short whistle. Then he skidded to his knees beside Fethra.

Tathar was beside him in a breath. "They come!" he shouted to the line of archers forming to protect the rear of the camp, "Look east, to the tree line!" The Elves rapidly gathered, following their lord's order. Men swathed in shadow and golden armor spilled from the concealment of the forest. They thundered up the hill with a battle cry, weapons raised threateningly. The Elves took aim and fired. A breath later the forefront of the charge fell, most struck dead.

Legolas strapped on his quiver and sword and then grabbed his bow. "Everyone to his horse!" he shouted. "Hurry!" His forces scattered, reaching for their mounts. He pulled forth from his quiver an arrow and rapidly took aim, centuries of experience and natural talent guiding his eyes and body. He launched the shot into the night and was rewarded with a mortal squeal. Like lightning he fired another, his body languid and fierce. He did not wait to see if his arrow met its mark before taking aim once more.

Arod had heard his master's call, galloping from a distant portion of the pasture where he had earlier grazed in solitude. He stopped beside Legolas, waiting patiently for the prince to finish his shot. Another barrage of arrows struck the camp, killing a few of the archers, many of the arrows slamming uselessly into the dirt. Legolas looked up, his wide eyes scanning the enemies sprinting across the grass. They appeared more black spiders than men. He estimated there were more than one hundred. One hundred against thirty. Those were odds they could not beat!

Fethra screamed as Legolas scooped her up into his arms. "Ride to Lord Faramir!" he commanded of one his scouts. The younger Elf looked squeamish and frightened; for a split second Legolas wondered if this was his first experience in battle. "Tell him we will not be able to hold this!" The ashen-faced soldier nodded and then leaped onto his chestnut horse.

The archers were now mounted. They launched another volley of arrows into the approaching force, this time joined by Faramir's rangers. The camp was in a precarious state of controlled chaos as recently awoken men stumbled to their steeds. Horses and soldiers ran about everywhere, some struck with black, wicked arrows. Their attackers were nearly upon them.

Fethra clung to him, hysterically crying, nearly strangling him with the ferocity of her hold about his throat. One arm he closed around her to hold her to him, and the other he wrapped about Arod's neck. He easily swung himself up onto his horse. He tried to peel the little girl off of him, ducking as arrows whizzed overhead. One nearly clipped his ear, the weapon slicing the air loudly with a whoosh as it brushed past his hair. "Little one," he gasped. He would never be able to properly shoot like this! "Fethra, you must release me! Fethra!"

But she only held tighter, squirming, screaming so loud he could barely think over the shrill racket. His heart booming in his chest, Legolas drew another arrow and took aim as best he could.

The Easterlings invaded the camp, breaching the perimeter. The fight began, furious and frenzied. Man and Elf howled into the night, and the sounds of weapons whacking together, of grunts and cries, of the thud of feet and bodies became a deafening roar. Legolas realized they had one clear advantage over their opponents; the horses kicked at the assailants surrounding them, prancing so quickly it was difficult for the Easterlings to strike them. Arod's powerful hind legs caught one man in chest, sending him flying back with a sickening crunch. Legolas shot another through the eye. The Easterlings wore strong, gold plate mail, but the archer had learned well its weaknesses at Pelennor Fields. Another arrow he nocked to his bowstring and launched almost instantaneously into the underarm of the closest opponent.

He saw horses fall, and with them went his comrades. Fear welled up inside him. Cries for retreat rang in the air, rising above the din. Legolas finally succeeded in settling the bawling Fethra into his lap, freeing his arms. Strapping his great bow to his back, he drew his sword. Long blades were not his favorite weapons, and he was less able with them than knives. There was little choice, given his nearly emptied quiver, and with a sword he could use his greater height to his advantage. He swung the glimmering blade down, stabbing and slashing with precision. Men fell back away from him, and he nudged Arod forward, driving to the front of the camp. He saw with grim satisfaction that most of his company followed him.

In the black of the night he could not tell if they were winning this battle. Blood dripped from his sword as he brought it to bear against a man equipped with a crossbow, jabbing it into the soldier's chest before he had a chance to shoot his loaded weapon. The Easterling fell back with a howl before Legolas severed his head with a mighty swing. Fethra shrieked as blood splattered upon her.

He fought for quite some time, his mind separated from his body. Instinct guided him, and he followed without question, moving as though one with his sword. He was well regarded as an amazing warrior, a reputation that had become more widespread given his elevated status after the War of the Ring. Quick eyes and quicker reflexes reacted faster than a man could, and he prevented many of the attacks of the Easterlings who surrounded him. Still, he was growing weary. He wondered how many he had killed and how many more there might yet be.

There came a cry behind him. He ripped around on Arod's back, watching in horror as an enemy slammed a club into Tathar's side. The outnumbered warrior slipped from his mount with the force of the impact and hit the ground hard. "Tathar!" cried Legolas in terror. But he could see no more, as the circle of Easterlings hungrily closed upon the fallen Elf.  _"Tathar!"_

He moved without thinking, sheathing his sword and jumping down from Arod's back. Fethra screamed as she broke contact with him, her little hands straining to grasp him again. "Hold tight to Arod, Fethra!" he demanded, taking her arms and wrapping them around the white stallion's neck. "He will protect you, I swear!"

"Leglass!" she wailed, tears streaming from squinted eyes. She grasped the horse's neck.

But Legolas only pushed her away. To Arod he whispered in Elvish, "Run, my friend, and take her to safety! Run!"

Arod blinked once before turning and galloping away. Fethra screamed, "Leglass!  _Leglass!_ " Legolas swallowed the lump in his throat, knowing it was better this way. Arod could keep her safe; this place was far too dangerous. He watched only until the agile horse had navigated the field of battle and disappeared into the night. Then the heat of the battle slammed back into him, and he whirled around.

He drew his knives in one smooth motion and spun them before charging with a furious cry into the mess of enemies surrounding his fallen friend. They just barely noticed his approach, one turning in time to receive the slash of Legolas' long, white knife across his throat. The Elf pivoted on the ball of his heel, spinning and slamming the other blade into the side of another. The man fell, gagging, as the prince retracted his knife. "Tathar!" he called. There was no answer over the whizzing of arrows and the cries of battle. He kicked an approaching assailant, frantically fighting through the crowd to find his friend. His throat burned in terror and worry.

Blood dripped from his shining knives as he fought, expending all his concentration and energy. He feinted, ducking under a swing meant to remove his head from his shoulders, and swept the man's legs from beneath him. He spun his weapons again and then stabbed them deep into the fallen man's neck. The body seized once or twice and then was still.

Another man charged at him as he rose, catching him unawares. At the last instant, Legolas brought his knives up in a defensive block and deflected the careening sword. He could not, however, sidestep the man's barreling body, and the Easterling struck him hard with his shoulder. The Elf grunted as the sharp spikes on the man's guards ripped through the padded cloth of his tunic and jerkin, tearing the flesh beneath. The pain stunned him, and for a moment he could not breathe.

Then he struck the ground. The impact jarred his body painfully, the full weight of the man pressing him into the grass. Legolas gasped, hot agony coursing up and down his left side as the Easterling's spiked armor dug deeper and twisted into his skin. Frantic and winded, he gathered his senses and looked up into the eyes of his assailant. They were… empty, black, soulless. Pure fear pushed his shaken body into motion. He brought up his knife and jabbed it into the nape of the man's neck, where his armor did not cover him. His enemy only gurgled in pain before falling limply onto Legolas' chest.

For a moment, Legolas simply lay there, struggling to regain his breath and stop the sky from spinning in nauseating circles overhead. The panic and surprise was slow to fade, leaving his body weak and numb. Then Tathar came back to his mind, and, with a grunt of exertion, he pushed the corpse off of him and climbed to his feet. Once upright, he nearly doubled over, feeling hot blood soak into his clothes at his shoulder and breast. Quickly he glanced to the wound. Painful, but not serious. Staggering, he pushed through the grasses to where he had last seen his friend.

The Easterlings were in retreat. The men of Gondor and Elves of Ithilien cried their victory as they repelled the lasting the ambushing force. But Legolas did not join in their elation.

Tathar was dead. His father's most trusted soldier lay in the grass, his throat cut. His empty eyes that had so often twinkled in merriment or encouragement were wide open, staring blankly at the night sky overhead, searching perhaps. To die here, trapped on Middle Earth… What a cruel trick! To stay only to perish. There was no peace in his face. He had faced mortality alone and afraid.

Legolas' knives dropped from limp fingers, and he collapsed to his knees in grief. The tears left his eyes of their own accord, streaming through the blood and dirt. He pulled Tathar's body to him, cradling him in his arms. How he longed to hear his friend's voice! How he longed to know his mentor's support! He had lost comrades before, friends before, but not like this. He could not deny the terrible truth, though his quivering, grieving spirit sought to do nothing else. His despair was so powerful he could not breathe.

Tears dripped from the end of his nose, splattering on Tathar's lax face. Unable to stand the sight of those soulless eyes, Legolas tenderly pulled them closed. "I am so sorry," he whispered. He leaned down, touching his forehead to Tathar's. "Ai, I am so sorry!" The world moved around him, but for a long time he did not see or hear. He did not feel. He was trapped in a cell of misery.

But as much as he would have liked to stay, he could not. He leaned back, suddenly repulsed by his anguish, allowing some hope to return to his battered heart. He whispered an Elvish lament to the passing breeze, wishing for the cool gale to ferry his friend's departed soul to the everlasting peace of the Halls of Mandos.

The thought eased him a bit, and he set Tathar's cold body to the ground. He began to see again. The dark, deep night pressed about him. There was blood on his hands, blood of all those he had killed. Tathar's. His own. He felt the breeze pull at his long hair and wipe at his tears. His shoulder ached dully. The fatigue of battle and over-exertion slammed into him. He began to hear again. The moans of the wounded. The whimpers of dying horses. The sounds of men running. Of shouting.

"Lord Legolas! Lord Legolas!" came a frantic call. Legolas turned at the sound, his heart jumping. It was Mablung, and the man was terrified. "Lord Faramir has fallen!"


	4. A Terrible Tale

Legolas flew through the grass, ignoring the pain in his chest and head and the tears burning in his eyes. So frightened and grief-stricken, he could think of nothing aside from the terrible chance that he might lose another friend this night. Another friend. He would not allow that to happen! He could not!

Pushing all the speed he could out of himself, he sprinted past the wearied Mablung, bounding over the corpses and battle debris littering the field. His heart was booming in his chest. Ahead a circle of men had formed. At his approach a few turned, regarding the running Elf with furious, grim expressions. Legolas slowed, his eyes wide and questioning, cold sweat covering him for fear of what he might find. The soldiers and rangers parted, allowing the prince to pass through them.

Beregond looked up, meeting Legolas' worried gaze. "He has been shot," declared the man. In his voice was much, and the archer's spirit shuddered at what he heard. Guilt. Rage. Fear. Beregond's charge had been seriously wounded, and the man clearly blamed himself for it.

In the soldier's lap rested Faramir's head. The young lord's eyes were squeezed shut in pain that must have been excruciating. The healer was at his captain's side, and he looked panicked. His hands were covered in sticky blood, the source of which was obvious. A long, wicked arrow was buried deep into Faramir's chest. The fletching of it was black, with hideous feathers tightly connected to a dark, deceptively strong shaft.

Legolas fell to his knees. He supposed he should have been grateful that his friend lived still, but he was well-versed in battle. He knew that Faramir faced dismal odds of survival. The crestfallen Elf scrambled closer. "How serious is it?" he asked, glancing at the healer.

The healer was hesitant to answer, and that more than anything heightened Legolas' concern. When the man did, the meek words shattered any confidence the prince might have had. "I know not. He bleeds badly." The Elf realized then with chagrin that this was not the expert and trained healer he had previously met. This new man was younger, an apprentice perhaps. The other had likely died during the attack. Legolas cursed all the foul fates.

Red gushed from the wound, spilling like a torrent. Faramir groaned, his entire form quivering, as he cracked open his eyes. Sweat beaded on his brow. A bloodied hand reached for Legolas, and the Elf came closer. He took Faramir's hand, grasping the other tightly. The prince wondered briefly if the man knew what was happening. The ranger's disoriented eyes were full of pain and fear.

Mablung crouched over Legolas' shoulder. "Poison?" he asked, winded by both the run and the tragedy of what had just happened. The healer looked helpless, and Legolas bowed his head. His shoulders shook in quivering wrath. The Easterlings were known for lacing their weapons with vile toxins. Without fail they killed, slowly and painfully, dragging the unfortunate victim's demise out for hours filled with high fever and aching delirium. There was no easy cure, and no chance for survival and recovery unless a skilled healer was available to immediately tend the wound. Legolas grimaced, remembering the heat and chaos of the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith after the Battle of Pelennor Fields. So many had perished, for there had not been enough herbs to treat all the wounded. Morgul poisoning left little but despair in its wake.

He prayed with all his spirit that Faramir be spared such a fate.

There was a cry from beyond and the rumble of many men. Cold fear washed over the Elf, and he turned frantic eyes to Beregond.  _Please, do not make us do this… By the Valar, please!_  "We must remove the arrow." He was surprised at the firm and courageous tone in his own voice. "We cannot wait!"

The healer shook his head. "My Lord Legolas, he may not–"

The Elf settled upon the man flashing eyes, his anger giving him strength. "There is no other option. We are in the open here, vulnerable and wounded. If they come again, we will be crushed!" Legolas looked down, his eyes narrowed with the gravity of the situation. "We cannot move him like this." He had seen this many times before, in many battles. The wounded often died during transit, when a bleeding injury was left untreated in favor of escape. He was not willing to take that chance with Faramir. Never with Faramir. "We must do it, and do it quickly, before he bleeds to death!"

They sat in silence a moment, each knowing with all their being that the action they chose now would define the course of Faramir's life, that their captain and prince's soul lingered in their hands. Laden with pain and fear, the silence endured until time itself seemed to stop and wonder at what might become of this ill-fated mission.

Then Beregond looked up from his lord's face. "The Elf is right. Hurry! Mablung, ready the men. Send a message to the Elves that we ride momentarily!" The group only stood and watched though, so many eyes glued to the scene before them, paralyzed and lost without their lord. "Move!" bellowed Beregond in frustrated anger, and his exclamation sent the men flying into motion.

The healer grasped Legolas' arm, his eyes wide and desperate. "We have not the instruments to properly do this, my Lord, and I am not so skilled as to contend with such a serious injury!" Legolas appreciated the young man's unwillingness to perform such a daunting task in the field. He looked scared witless.

"You have been trained, have you not?"

The healer sheepishly shook his head. "I – I apologize, but I cannot do this. I cannot!"

Anger sped through Legolas as he watched the other man avert his eyes shamefully. Flustered but driven by need to save Faramir's life, the Elf looked to Beregond. "Hold down his arm. You," he snapped, gesturing to the nervous healer, "find something on which he can bite." The Elf drew a deep breath to calm himself. "I will do it."

Beregond's eyes snapped up and held Legolas' gaze. In the dark orbs was alarm. "You know of how to do this?" he whispered, his face wound tight in an expression of dismay.

Legolas paled further and tried to clear his muddled mind. In truth, he was not overly skilled in the healing arts. Elves were resilient creatures, gifted with both extraordinary physical endurance and defense against disease. Medicinal practices were left to those with natural talent in Mirkwood, and he had found far greater ease in wielding a bow than herbs. Still, he had learned much from his travels with Aragorn. The ranger had, under Lord Elrond's instruction, developed quite a prolific knowledge of healing, and more than once had Legolas witnessed his dear friend's skill in practice. The Elf was by no means as competent as Aragorn or any of the Lord of Rivendell's family, but there was no other choice. He was the only one willing, it seemed.

Still, he could not bring himself to speak over the knot in his throat. Beregond watched Legolas a moment more, but the Elf stared as calmly as he could at Faramir's anguished face, refusing to allow the man to detect his doubt. Then the soldier restrained Faramir, putting all his weight into pressing the Prince of Ithilien's shoulders into the grass.

Legolas drew a deep breath to calm himself.  _There is no other way! You can do this! You_  must  _do this!_  These thoughts were enough to bolster his resolve for the moment, and he straddled Faramir's waist. It tore at his heart to see his friend in so much pain. He closed his eyes, drawing from his warrior's spirit the calm he would need to do what was required of him. He needed detachment. He needed a clear mind and steady hands. He felt the others shake around him in fright and panic. He would be their strength.

The Elf released the breath and opened his eyes. From his boot he drew his dagger, one his brother had rewarded him many years prior after winning a hunting contest. It was silvery white, the blade long and incredibly sharp, elegantly crafted by the finest Elven smiths. Swallowing and praying his mettle would last him, he began to slice the straps securing Faramir's leather armor to his chest. The dagger made short work of the bindings, and the Elf peeled and cut away the protective covering to free the ranger's shoulder.

He grimaced. There was so much blood. The arrow was close to his heart. Carefully, he worked the tip of the dagger under the once tan cloth of Faramir's tunic. It had been caked to his chest with the red torrent spilling from his wound. But Legolas' hands were surprisingly steady and deft in their task, and he slipped the dagger's point between the fabric and the shaft of the arrow. Gently he cut the tunic enough to widen the hole, and then he ripped it open.

Faramir's chest heaved under him, the young man's eyes blankly searching the sky. The Elf peered at the wound, wiping the blood away with his hands. "We need cloth, quickly!" His harsh tone finally spurred the ashen-faced healer into action

Legolas felt Faramir shift and jerk beneath him as he pressed about the wound, searching for the depth of the injury and the nature of the arrow. He could tell naught. The shaft was smooth, but it was in so deeply it was impossible to tell what the tip was like. "Stay still, my friend," he whispered quietly, praying that Faramir might simply pass out now and spare himself the agony this would no doubt cause. "I will try to make this quick."

"Just do it, Legolas," hissed the ranger quickly. His good hand snapped forth and grabbed Legolas' own. "I do not fear the pain!" The desperation in his voice betrayed the assurance, and Legolas felt wretched at the turmoil he was about to unwillingly inflict.

The healer returned with bandages and a belt. Beregond took the leather article and placed it securely in his captain's mouth. Then the man meet Legolas' gaze. In his eyes was the weight of his duty. Legolas bit the inside of his cheek as he grasped the shaft of the arrow. The thing felt terrible, hot and violent, burning his fingertips. "Hold him steady, now…" Beregond bore down, and Legolas pulled.

A shrill scream rang through the night followed by the snap of wood.

Legolas recoiled and nearly choked. The shaft had snapped, breaking with the strain, and he now held the gruesome, black fletch in his hand. Stunned, he could only stare at it, as though it were something benign and awe-inspiring. Then the full repercussion of what he had just foolishly done struck him.

The Elf's rattled mind could find no curse strong or hateful enough for himself. It could not be!  _Please, Elbereth… please not this!_  But there was no escape, no denial. As he looked closer, his worst nightmare was confirmed. Tiny hooks jutted from the shaft. It was barbed. The whole bloody thing was barbed!

Legolas could not quell his rage, the storm of his emotion battering his restraint. He released a cry of frustration, tossing the broken piece away. Beregond shook his head, eyes wide and frightened looking to the riled Elf. "What, my Lord? What has happened?"

But Legolas did not answer. He was falling, drowning in despair and anguish. Guilt, black and abominable, choked him, bile rising up and burning the back of his throat. How could he have been so careless? There would be no easy way to extract the rest of the arrow. His rash actions had insured that. Some part of his broken mind still clung to logic, tethered by the smallest hope that there still might be a chance, a way to undo the damage he had just inflicted.  _Think,_  that harsh voice of reason snapped.  _Think, you fool! If you do not, he will die! He will die because of you!_

It was enough. He pushed aside his shame, his fear, his rage. He found strength again. He would fight for Faramir. He would not lose him as he had Tathar!

His hands flew of their own accord, some part of his subconscious mind conjuring up a plan of action. The butt of the arrow was now below the level of Faramir's skin. There was no other choice but to dig it out. Legolas let a cold resolution drive him now. He did not hear Faramir's charged rasping, his agonized screams, his grunts and moans. He did not see his friend's eyes blink frantically or the tears stream down a sallow face. Faramir struggled wildly, thrashing furiously to be free from the source of his hurt, but Legolas pressed his weight down on his friend's straining body. The ranger's free hand was clenched upon the Elf's forearm with crushing strength. Sweat beaded on Legolas' brow as he worked, and a surge of blood rushed over the Elf's fingers. The healer scrambled to mop up the flood. Legolas felt only the beat of Faramir's heart beneath his fingers as he cut and worked the arrow free. His knife easily sliced the skin around the stub of the arrow. The hole became gaping despite his efforts to make small, neat cuts, weeping blood from ripped flesh. With the edge of the dagger and slippery fingers, the Elf loosened the arrow from the flesh into which it had bitten as tenderly as he could. Long moments passed, an eternity it seemed in this vacuum of rushed breath and pleading souls.

Then it was over.

Faramir's body twisted in an inhuman, horrid lurch as Legolas pulled the arrow from him. The ranger remained suspended a moment before sinking weakly back to the ground. The cold barrier with which Legolas had surrounded himself shattered, and he nearly gagged, tossing the terrible thing aside.

Silence came over them, the sort that festered in moments riddled with sadness and shock. Harsh gasping and soft sobbing filled the void. No one had the strength to move, as if sudden motion might make the end to this nightmare a falsehood. Legolas' racing heartbeat deafened him.

It was Beregond who finally found the bravery to act. "More cloth, hurry! He bleeds!"

Reality snapped horridly into motion, and a flurry of activity commenced. There were men around them, rushing to lend aid. Mablung shouted over the ruckus, "A path has been cleared to the bridge, my Lords! We must leave now if we are to leave at all!"

Bandages were shoved into Legolas' hands. The prince jerked from his numb stupor and held them against the gushing wound, hoping that pressure might staunch the horrendous blood flow. He opened his mouth to speak to Faramir, but he realized his friend had passed out. Dread sucked the strength from Legolas' limbs. The Elf prince sagged, leaning forward and closing his eyes. All the pains of his body suddenly slammed back into him, and he felt terribly lightheaded. His hurt shoulder ached tremendously. Yet he kept his attention on Faramir, frantically searching his friend's unconscious face for signs of relief, of comfort. When he saw none, he grasped the other's hand and lowered his face to it. "I am so sorry," he whispered. Tathar's lifeless eyes slammed back to his thoughts, and those very same useless, pathetic words he had said over the body of his mentor he spoke again now. A great throbbing shook him. "I am so sorry!"

"Lord Legolas, you are wounded. Let us tend to your arm."

The healer's words insulted him. He stood quickly, his anger strong enough to block from his mind the discomforts he felt, and wiped his face, pretending the wetness he felt was not tears. The action smeared blood on his pale and fair countenance like gruesome war paint. "See to your captain, sir. I need no assistance. His life depends on our escape!" He knew with great dread that Faramir needed the aid of a skilled healer. The aid of the king. Only that could perhaps undo the damage.

The other man blanched a bit, likely realizing the same, but knelt at Faramir's side, finishing their work. Legolas rapidly wiped the dagger on his tunic before slipping it back into his boot. As he turned, a wave of nausea and dizziness nearly toppled him. The haze of his anger faded, leaving him staggering. The world seemed lethargic to him, but he knew everything to be moving speedily, fueled by frenzied panic. He heard someone shouting about the enemy's return, but it seemed so very distant. The need to survive was all that drove his exhausted form now.

His people were looking to him for orders. They were ready, some wounded, others bearing the bodies of those dead or injured with them upon their mounts. Legolas glanced back to Faramir, watching as the healer pressed herbs to the injury before tying it tightly with clean bandages. Beregond bared his teeth with the strain of lifting his captain's leaden body. The Elf began to step closer, intending to aid him, but a few of the rangers had already hopped from their horses and steadied the leader of the White Guard. Legolas swallowed uncomfortably and realized with crushing finality that, for better or worse, he had done all he could for Faramir. A few breaths later the men had hoisted Faramir atop Hasufel, the great gray beast for once simply obeying the whims of the men. Beregond mounted after, pulling Faramir's unconscious form securely against him. "We ride!" he hollered into the night.

There came a warm breath at Legolas' ear, and the Elf turned quickly. It was Arod. As always, the horse's intellect served to astound his master; he had known to arrive at precisely the correct moment. Legolas gasped and smiled weakly, the appearance of his trusted steed leaving him quaking in anguished joy. He leaned into the horse's chest, desperate for comfort, even if it would only be a moment's worth.  _Ai, Arod…_  The animal stood strong and silent, allowing Legolas this breath of release. Tears leaked from the Elf's eyes, this time unbidden.

He stood still for what seemed to be a long time. Then Arod fondly nuzzled Legolas' cheek and nudged him with his nose. The cold wetness against his face broke Legolas from his miserable reverie. He looked to Arod's back. For a moment he doubted his bleary, blurred sight. It seemed impossible that there could be any hope left, that there could be light in this choking dark. Perhaps his imagination was shielding his mind with what he desired to see, knowing that his fragile spirit at this moment could take no more death. But it was not so!

He quivered in debilitating waves of relief as, with a shaking hand, he stroked Fethra's matted hair. The child still clung to Arod's white neck. She was unscathed and had apparently cried herself back to sleep. Perhaps she would wake up and think this horrible night a dream. Perhaps she would be so blessed as to not remember it at all.

There came a great clamor of clanking armor and running men. Arod pricked his ears and snorted, nipping at Legolas' hand. Then he lowered himself a bit to aid the prince. Legolas swung his tired body up, silently thanking the horse for realizing his distress. The distant thunder of hooves grew louder. There, from the forest! The Easterlings were charging again!

"Go!" he heard himself shout to his company.  _"Go!"_

And so they did. Legolas pulled Fethra to him, tucking the little girl tightly to his chest. He glanced behind him as Arod took off in a powerful gallop. From the shadows he heard furious battle cries, and the dark took the shape of advancing men. Legolas turned back, leaning close to Arod, trusting his horse to know the way.

The cacophony of running horses filled the night like rolling thunder, the bellow of a storm pummeling the land. Wind ripped at Legolas' hair, dragging strong fingers along his clothes and skin. It was almost as if it sought to keep him there, trapped on this island, in this nightmare. Grasping at him, it tried to drag him back. Instinctively he shielded Fethra, holding his precious burden to his chest. It could take him, but it would never take her.

Ahead was the bridge. He could see it now, the mist of the river below sweeping over the stone structure like ghosts reaching up from the water's surface. Through the graveyard that had once been Cair Andros they flew, the horses bounding over the debris and rubble covering the street. The Easterlings were giving chase; the Elf could hear them running and shouting. But they stood no chance of catching their quarry now.

Across the trestle stampeded the company. The stone did not crack or crumble despite the tremendous pounding. The wisps below reached upward to them, as though they were the spirits of those slaughtered straining to catch them, seeking to draw them into the same violent death they had endured out of vengeance and anger. The survivors raced by it all. Neither the wind nor the tendrils of bitter souls could stop them.

Then they were in the woods, dashing along the narrow path through the dense, dark trees. The rumble of their escape shook the earth. And after they had passed, the land was still, quiet. Silent. Only the wind blew, whispering a terrible tale, and when it touched the leaves, the forest began to weep.


	5. All the Difference

The air was motionless, but a leaf twitched. The most careful of eyes might have detected the minute movement. Upon closer inspection, one could have noticed a dash of blue among the bright greens, yellows, and oranges of the great tree's foliage. Yet it was highly unlikely any could see the Elf beyond the glow of his eyes so stealthily hidden was he. The thick limbs of the tree guarded him, the broad leaves obscuring him from an observer's sight. Only a single leaf betrayed his presence, waving ever so slightly with the push of his breath upon it.

Legolas narrowed his eyes and looked northwest. The sun had risen a few hours past, chasing away the last shadows of the horrible night and bringing with it hope for a new day. Golden and yellow light spilled from the horizon, the illustrious sun slowly shedding her beauty upon the world. From this vantage he could see miles down the Anduin River valley, to the island where Cair Andros had once existed. There was no sign of the enemy, no cloud of dust revealing the march of many feet, no black line of men crawling like ants through the plains and forests, no sense of fear or foreboding. The Elf prince sighed, and the leaves before his face shivered in his relief. They had not been followed.

Fondly he rested his hand on the trunk of the old tree, whispering a soft token of gratitude in Elvish to the ancient spirit for aiding him in his task. Then he gracefully slid from his position. Soundlessly he made his way down the trunk, hopping from limb to limb effortlessly, moving fearlessly though the tree was quite tall. A breath later his feet softly struck the forest floor.

Mablung was waiting for him. The ranger's round face was marred with soot and blood. "What did you see, son of Thranduil?"

Legolas turned to him, straightening his clothes. "Nothing. They do not track us."

The news was joyous indeed! Mablung did not hide a contented smile. "That is good, then. The men are weary." The ranger said nothing more, but Legolas understood well what he had left unspoken. They had ridden hard for hours, trying desperately to put as much distance between the danger and themselves for possible. No words had been shared, no concerns uttered. In the void there was naught but the rumble of running horses and the pounding of hearts. Only recently had they stopped, as their mounts had grown weary. Scouts, the few that were left among the Elves and men, found a stream in the woods whose gentle water clear and cool. There they had built a small camp, giving the animals time to drink and rest their weary legs and men an opportunity to tend the wounded.

Legolas watched as the apprentice healer rushed about, carrying with him bags of herbs and bandages. A few soldiers he had in tow, the men offering their services as aides given the large number of wounded. It had been a grim count. Of more than thirty soldiers, eleven had died, four of which had been Elves of Ithilien. Another ten or so of their company were grievously wounded. Too many had been lost. Far too many.

The ranger and archer stepped through the woods, passing men lying on their cloaks as they were treated. Some were beyond help. They would not survive the rest of the trip to Minas Tirith. Though it pained Legolas greatly, he knew with sad finality that they could now only ease the passing of these unfortunates. Friends clutched the clammy hands of their comrades, whispering comforts and solaces as the dying slipped from this world. The solemn air was oppressive. This horrible crime against them, for all the want of their hearts, could not be undone.

They reached Faramir. Beregond had not left his charge's side once since they had fled Cair Andros, and it was clear, though he had not voiced as much, that he was plagued by guilt. He knelt beside his captain, using a scrap of cloth and a bowl of water to wipe away the sweat and blood from Faramir's pale face. Legolas felt his heart throb at the sight of his injured friend. He dropped to crouch across from Beregond. "How fares he?" he asked. His white lips hardly moved with the question.

The man seemed dismal and forlorn, frightened over these ill happenings and ashamed at his inability to remedy them. He sighed, draping a rag soaked in cool water over Faramir's brow. "The fever has grown no better," stated the man eventually. Dismayed, the Elf felt for himself. Faramir's brow was burning, just as Beregond had said. Then he pulled back the blanket. Gently he moved Faramir's tunic away from his neck and lifted the blood stained bandages to examine the wound. It was red, the torn flesh angry, inflamed, and hot to the touch. The healer had minutes before stitched shut the torn hole, but aside from applying general measures to reduce the chance of infection, they had no way to counteract poison. Legolas knew little of toxins and their indications, but the skin seemed a healthy color at least and it emitted no foul odor. He let that be hope enough, as pondering the matter extensively did nothing but amplify his worry.

The fever was quite serious, though. They could not afford to stay here for very long. Only in the Houses of Healing could Faramir receive the aid he so sorely needed. By Legolas' calculations, they were a full five or six leagues from Minas Tirith yet. Though the distance was not so large, both the horses and men were exhausted, and bearing injured companions would slow them greatly. Legolas did not like the choice before him. A respite was badly needed by all. But what would be the sacrifice? His tired mind swirled. How much he desired to sleep…

Still, he could not rest. Even if he permitted this company a reprieve, he was their commander now. Sleep was not an option for him. "Let us rest here a little while longer." Beregond met his gaze with a piercing concerned glare. The hard, accusatory expression stabbed into Legolas' resolve, and he nearly faltered. "We are too weary to continue, and pushing further without respite will only jeopardize the wounded."

The logic had the desired effect, and the Captain of the White Guard's face softened. Legolas' heart throbbed for his plight, for it clearly mirrored his own. The Elf gave a weak smile, grasping Beregond's hand as it came to rest on Faramir's chest. "Worry not," said the Elf, "for Faramir is a man of great strength and courage. The shadow will not take him. His light is far too valiant and powerful to quietly slip into the darkness."

After a moment, Beregond returned Legolas' grin with one of his own, obviously heartened by the Elf's words. He gave Legolas' hand a brief squeeze of gratitude before continuing in his care of his lord, once again running a damp cloth over Faramir's feverish face. Legolas watched a little longer, hoping fate would not make a liar out of him.

Then he stood and looked to Mablung. The ranger watched him curiously, a mixture of wary acceptance and relief flitting across his dark eyes. Though the man was much experienced in the ways of tracking and fighting, he had obviously never before submitted himself to the orders of an Elf. His misgivings Legolas knew he would not dare voice, but the archer sensed them well enough. "What shall I tell them, sir?" he finally asked, breaking the awkward silence between them.

It seemed a terrible thing to ask more from these soldiers after all that happened, but worry drove Legolas to cast aside his guilty conscience. "An hour," he finally decided, though his voice was devoid of any emotion. Mablung did not look overly pleased with the pronouncement either; it was not enough time to properly recuperate and it was also too much time spent lingering while the injured, while Faramir, suffered. While the Easterlings perhaps plotted their next attack. But the ranger only nodded. As with much that had happened, there were few options, and none of those available offered anything other than danger and despair.

The Elf turned and continued his walk through the camp, heading down a gentle slope to the stream. He heard water trickling. As he picked his way through the trees, he came upon what remained of his company of Elves. Some were injured and most were mourning those that had passed. Tathar's absence was particularly stressful to Legolas' already bleeding heart. Only his anger gave him strength to hold back his tears. The Elves were lost and melancholic, the ghosts of those gone haunting each hushed word and solemn glance. They were in a state of shock, as if the loss of their brethren was simply too incredible and upsetting to accept.  _My company. What a fine lord I am!_

At seeing him approach, Fethra tore from the confines of another Elf's care and ran toward him. He smiled, her bright eyes and laughter easing him immediately. The little one bounded into his embrace, throwing arms about him. "Leglass! Leglass!"

He caught her easily despite the ache of his chest wound, crouching and sweeping the vigorous girl into his arms. Thankfully she had slept for much of the ride from Cair Andros, too fatigued by her ordeal to wake even for the roughest jostling. Now she was a bundle of excitement, animated and enthusiastic. Though the change in her once sullen demeanor brightened Legolas, he vaguely wondered how he was going to conjure forth the energy to match her cheery disposition this day.

She wrapped her arms around his neck as he shifted her to his uninjured side, nuzzling quite contentedly into his shoulder. An Elf from Rivendell by the name of Valandil saluted him crisply. Legolas did not know him well, but he seemed of a good stock with a generous mind and warm personality. His long dark hair was a bit tangled, and his pale face was smudged with soot. Still, his blue eyes were bright with the new day, offering his lord a token of good faith that all would be well. "Prince Legolas, we await your instruction."

Legolas held tighter to Fethra, though now she was squirming to be free of his arms. "We shall take a brief respite here. How are the wounded?"

Valandil glanced behind them. "Well enough, Lord." Five Elves had been injured in the fight, though much to Legolas' relief, none of the wounded had been mortally harmed. They now lay on the forest floor, some dozing with their eyes blankly watching ahead, others regarding some distant thought with troubled expressions as their comrades tended to them. "We did not suffer so grievous a loss as the men of Gondor did last eve."

Legolas felt a pang of guilt ripple through him, but he braced himself with his duty and weathered it wearily. His people did not blame him for the ambush, at least not outwardly, and though he felt wariness from the men over which he had assumed command, they as well seemed to hold him in no contempt. If only such logic could calm him!  _I am no commander. Forever have I been a follower, never a leader._  The painful fact of it, so blatant and undeniable, was this: for all the experience he had acquired during his long life, for all his training as a prince, for all his prowess in battle and talent as a warrior, he was a pathetic commander. Even as a youth, he had never been the favored prince, doted upon by his mother and father, their last, treasured child, but never considered a true heir to the throne of Mirkwood. He had wondered at this paradox, how his father, the King, cherished his son, and yet how the King, his father, abhorred his prince. His older brothers had taken well to the pressures of court, becoming the proper pictures of royalty and well-versed in the arts of ruling, war, and diplomacy. Legolas, however, had never even been given the chance to learn, for his father from his earliest days had measured him far too meek, careful, and flighty a creature to ever one day become an effective king. Endearing, yes. Handsome and talented with both voice and bow, certainly. Compassionate, lovable and in return loving, understanding, surely. But not a worthy king. Never that.

The Elf shied away from his father's court for hundreds of years, preferring solitude to the chaos of generals and laws and taxes and diplomacy. None had sought his company or asked him to return to the princely duties he had shunned. In fact, his older brothers and his father had almost seemed silently glad for his absence. A terrible blow to his ego it had been, and one from which he never quite recovered. One ill-turn bred another, and he had never returned to his King's service in matters outside patrolling and protecting their borders and war. He began to find more solace, more acceptance in the House of Elrond. The Half-Elven Lord of Rivendell asked no questions of his frequent visits, simply allowing him a haven from the pain his own family often caused him. There he had found joy in Elrohir and Elladan, Elrond's twin sons who were both playful enough to ward away worry and seriousness enough to properly address his troubles. And Arwen… long had he cherished the bond he shared with the Evenstar. She was a beauty to all, a comfort to a weary heart. Never did she judge. Never did she ask aught of him, save for his affection in return for her sisterly love. Days became weeks in Rivendell at times, and he adopted a new visage in his father's house: a ghost that flitted about the dark corridors on light feet so as not to attract unwanted attention or duty, a spirit that obeyed when called upon but without fervor, submitting to the laws of his birth but no more. The prince that was no prince at all. And after he had met Aragorn and formed a strong friendship with the young ranger, the separation had become all but complete.

That was why he had so willingly accepted Lord Elrond's request of him to join the Fellowship of the Ring. He felt more kinship with those four Hobbits, two men, one Dwarf, and one wizard than he had ever felt with his own family. He still remembered his father's angry words when the king had dispatched his son to Rivendell bearing the news of Mirkwood's loss of the creature Gollum. It had been his duty to guard their prisoner, and his father had been furious.  _"You have failed me, Legolas, and your kingdom as well. I ask so little of you, and even in the modest tasks to which you are appointed you cannot succeed. Go and tell Lord Elrond of your shortcoming! Perhaps you will find better favor with him than you do with me now!"_  Legolas had said nothing, bowing his head and buffeting the rage of his father's storm. After all, it was not proper for a son to raise his eyes or his voice to his father, and much less proper for a prince to question a king. It was a selfish thing, he had realized in hindsight. Though he had joined the Fellowship to aid in a noble quest and protect Aragorn, he had also done so in a voiceless strike at his father for his harsh words. Though his father was cruel with wit and impatient at times, Legolas loved him dearly and sought nothing more than his approval.

He closed his eyes briefly. How he wished for his father's guidance now! Thranduil, son of Oropher, had been a forbidding, stern Elf of great, powerful stature and regal face. Every bit of him had been bred for his station, and he proudly showed it. These days, when the pain of rejection was more a distant ache than a newly throbbing wound, he began to comprehend what his rage had blinded him from seeing. He was his father's youngest by many centuries, the last of the bloodline. The weight of the kingship would never conceivably come to him. Perhaps his father had sought to save him from the responsibility, seeking to preserve the innocence he had found in his last son. Once, long before his mother had been killed, she had told him how his father had named him for the glory of Mirkwood, a small homage to days when the grand forest had been majestic, green, and vibrant. To times when it had been called Greenwood the Great, when Sauron's choking darkness had not turned their lively home into a place of shade, danger, and death. The story had made Legolas proud, and it still did to this day. That his father, ageless and mighty, chose to bestow upon him such an honor made his heart soar in elation. But as Thranduil had sought to protect his kingdom from the choking grip of Mordor, he had also guarded well his youngest from the plight of royalty, from the chain of responsibility and crushing duty. From the weight of ruling a kingdom. And while the freedom afforded him had allowed him to make such wonderful friends and partake unreservedly in the battle for good, he cursed it as well.

It was his father's fault for pushing him away, and his fault for bitterly accepting that push. Had his father been right to doubt his strength? He was not out-spoken, and he knew he lacked the courage to so surely and arrogantly push upon others his whims and desires. He considered himself an equal among men, never using his Elvish blood as an indication of superiority. He loved a Dwarf…  _loved a Dwarf!_  What sort of Elf was he? Denying his birthright, denying his father's wishes and values? How many times had Thranduil lectured his sons on the strength of the Eldar, the vitality of the Firstborn and their burden in caring for the lesser races… Legolas hated his father for forcing such prejudiced views upon him, but he knew deep down inside where the anger could not touch logic that his father did not hate for the sake of hate, but for the sake of his people. Arrogance was power, after all, and power made for obedience and thus peace. It was maybe an unnerving proposition, but for all his want Legolas could not deny its sense. He had never wanted to believe it.

Regardless of what he wanted, he was alone now, and he did not have the training necessary to be an effective leader. It frightened him to think that perhaps he did not have the raw talent at all. Training would matter not without the spark, the flare within him for control and command. His father had always thought him more of his mother, with her gentle touch and soft voice. Unlike his brothers, it seemed he had inherited little from the king, except perhaps for a flair with archery. Truth be told, he did not know if he was fit to be a king, or a prince, or even a lord. He had never been given a chance to try. And now, far too much was at stake, and he was doubting very much that he could ascend to a station promised him by his birth.  _"You are your father's son. A king's son."_  Tathar's words came back to him, bringing misery and upset. All the long years Tathar had faithfully served King Thranduil… gone, and gone in his son's defense.  _"Never forget that."_

_I will not forget it. But I cannot believe in it!_

Fethra tugged on his hair, and Legolas snapped back to reality. A moment of disorientation passed over him, and he wondered how long he had stood still, distant in his thoughts. Valandil was looking at him, a question poised on pale lips, his eyes inquisitive and concerned. Legolas flushed and felt the fool. "I… apologize. My mind slipped from me."

Valandil cocked an eyebrow at the explanation, but he seemed to accept it as he nodded. "Do you require more of me, my Lord?" he asked. He shook his head, and Valandil turned and left.

The little girl promptly started squirming and struggling in his arms again, as if reminding him that there was more to this world than his own wretched doubts and lowered esteem. He realized with some chagrin and annoyance that she was still filthy. He sighed as she stuck her thumb in her mouth again. "You are a mess, little one. Come now, we will clean you a bit. Would you like that?"

She vehemently shook her head, obviously quite pleased with her grubby state. Legolas laughed at that. She vaguely reminded him of Aragorn when he had been younger. The ranger had always been so decidedly… grungy. And rank. During their many trials and hunts together in the wild, Legolas had learned to track Aragorn simply by scent when all other trails were hidden by the ranger's stealthy skill. And the man stubbornly refused to bathe though the Elf bade him to do such at every river and lake, claiming it was useless when he would only become dirty again. For an Elf, cleanliness was a must whenever possible. Always well kept and pristine himself, he found Aragorn laughably repulsive through much of the man's youth.

He looked upon himself, wincing as he realized he was just as dirty, if not more so. His clothes were ripped and stained with grime. Though he had before washed most of the blood from his hands, they still seemed crimson. His normally soft and light hair felt leaden with filth and dried blood. A warm bath seemed a perfect remedy then, the panacea to his aching body and mind. He smiled ruefully. The cold stream would have to do for now.

He stepped lightly to the bank, and Fethra began to babble about how much fun she had riding Arod and how fine a horse he was. Legolas nodded to her comments, more relieved to hear the joy in her voice than what she said. For her at least the rest of the battle had been a grand adventure with a mythical horse. Her ignorant bliss was a pleasing ray of light in this dark hour.

Upon the rocky shore he sat, settling her into his lap. She squirmed a bit more, saying, "I don't need a bath, Leglass. I'm clean!"

"No, you certainly are not, Fethra. I promise this will be quick. You have many cuts; you do not want to get sick from them, do you?" His adult logic worked well enough on her, and she stopped her wriggling. Then he set to work pulling the sandals from her little feet. When he finished with that, his fingers quickly unbuckled the straps of his quiver, and he set his weapons upon the shore. He undid the clasp of his cloak and laid that atop his possessions.

The sun shined off of the surface of the water and a bright red sparkled upon Fethra's chest. The pendant. During the panic of the fight he had forgotten about the mysterious trinket. The same queer feeling came to him. His curiosity piqued, he settled an arm around her, tenderly pulling her back against his chest. "Who gave you such a pretty jewel, little one?" he asked, leaning down over her shoulder.

She did not answer immediately, her eyes averted, and when she did respond, her voice had become somber. "Momma's friend… he gave it to me."

Legolas' brow furrowed in confusion. Could she mean her mother's lover? In Elven culture, it was quite unbecoming and unlawful to bed another outside the bond of marriage. But it was entirely possible that some other circumstance accounted for the act. "Friend? What sort of friend?" She did not seem to understand his question, her gaze shamefully lowered from his. "What did he look like?"

"Like you, Leglass."

A cold shock crawled over the Elf. He shook his head numbly. "Like me?"

Fethra nodded, solemnly. "Only his hair was brown. And he wasn't so messy."

"Another Elf?"

"Do all Elves have pointy ears and long hair?" she whispered.

"Yes, we do."

Then she nodded slowly, unknowing of the implication itself yet fearful of it all the same. "He came," she explained, "and gave it to Momma. He said it was Papa's." There was sadness in her voice, sadness and fear. "Momma didn't think so, but she took it. She was very sad."

Legolas felt his innards twist in pain. "Your father… Was he with your mother when…" He could not finish, feeling pity and emotion well up inside him.

Fethra looked up at him. In her eyes twinkled unshed tears. "He went away," she whimpered, "when the monsters came. He never came home. Momma said he went to a better place."

His heart ached as he understood. When Cair Andros had been overrun during the War of the Ring by Sauron's forces, many men had been killed or taken captive. The Orcs had reportedly taken their prisoners into Mordor, though such a fact was never confirmed. Many men were lost, missing, thought to be dead. Legolas knew of a few missions at the end of the war into the dark lands seeking to free any that had been captured, but he had never heard of their success. Apparently in Fethra's case, that one pendant was all that had been found of a missing loved one. It did glow with blood after all. Her father's blood.

The matter of the Elf perplexed him. He knew of few Elves in that vicinity, and of those most had joined the hosts at Pelennor Fields. Surely a kinsman or two might have aided in the search and recovery of the missing men. It was no large matter. Even so, he was intrigued by the enigma, and he made a mental note to consult Velathir about it when he returned to Ithilien. He would like to meet this Elf and learn all he could about the slaughter of the missing men. Perhaps he could learn for sure if Fethra was indeed orphaned.

The silence grew heavy with grief, and he decided to brush the painful past aside and embrace the future. "Well, you need not worry now, little one. You will be safe. Nothing will ever harm you again, this I swear." He smiled, and then so did she. The pain of old loss was forgotten in a wave of new affection. "Go on, now. Into the water with you!"

Slowly she dipped the ends of her dirtied toes into the stream. Legolas watched her bemusedly, one elegant eyebrow raised, as she clambered back into his lap as through the water had burned her. "It's cold, Leglass… I don't want to go in…"

She made him laugh, her face the picture of indignant innocence. "Ah, Fethra, it will not be so bad. I will keep you warm."

"Truly?"

"Truly."

Fethra regarded him a moment, as if gauging the truth in his promise. But then she smiled broadly and crawled from his lap, scrambling into the stream, muddying her frock even more. The water splattered all around as she played in the brook. "Splash, Leglass! Splash!"

The Elf grinned despite himself, pulling off his boots before standing and following her in. The spray of water reached his face, cooling his skin, and the muddy soil squished between his toes. For some reason it felt marvelous. If the water was chilly, he did not notice; Elves were endowed with a natural fortitude against the extremes of the elements. Even on the iciest pass of Caradhras, Legolas had never been struck with the cold that had so ailed and beaten the others. The stream was nothing but gentle upon his skin.

He crouched before Fethra, stopping her in her frivolity a moment. They were deep enough in the water so that it reached her belly. He cupped the clear liquid in his long hands and let it flow down her arms. The dirt and soot ran from the little limbs freely, dripping into the stream and disappearing into the swirling of the slowly moving currents. Carefully, he washed her, wiping and rinsing away the scars of Cair Andros. They were silent as he worked, his fingers tender and his heart hopeful, as layer by layer the muck and grime came away. As the cuts were cleaned. The purifying waters ran down over soft skin, through red, tangled hair. Delicately he picked apart the snarls, tangles, and knots. When he was done, he ran the pad of his thumb over her smooth cheek. Not yet had time touched her. He prayed it never might.

"There," he said quietly. He smiled again. "I thought there was a beautiful girl under all that, and it appears I am right!"

She giggled joyously at the compliment, and Legolas snatched her into his arms. He hugged her tightly as she playfully struggled and wriggled. Like warm, golden waves of sun, she brightened his spirit and seemingly brought life and love to everything she touched. He had never imagined this feeling blossoming within him. Happiness. Security. The joy in being needed. She intrigued him in ways he had never before imagined. He planted a tender kiss to her wet brow before releasing her.

"Play with me, Leglass!" she cried, prancing around him in the water. "Play! Splash!"

A sudden burst of pain from his shoulder struck him, and the smile slid from his face. In the commotion since fleeing Cair Andros, he had nearly forgotten about his own injuries. "In a moment, little one." He straightened and nearly hissed with the motion, wrapping his right arm instinctively around his injured left side. As though the wound was spiteful of his inattention of it, it now flared with stiff agony and he could not lift his arm beyond the height of his shoulder. It had been this bad earlier, but he had not given it much thought as he had been preoccupied with matters of greater importance. He did not think the injury overly serious, though it certainly hindered his movement. Still, he would not tend to it here, not in front of Fethra. It seemed improper somehow, and he did not wish to frighten her. As painful as it was, it could wait until a private moment. He would heal quickly enough, at any rate, and he had contended with worse discomforts in the past for much longer periods of time.

The little girl's frolicking and splashing drew his attention for just a moment. A new sensation came to him on the breeze, and his eyes grew distant as he smelled horses. As he heard voices that did not belong to their company. A calm came to his heart, a peaceful relief, familiar and welcomed. Exhausted joy rolled over him, warding away the aches of his heart and body. He took Fethra's hand. "Come. Help has arrived."

"Help?" she echoed.

"Aye, Fethra." She looked at him expectantly, but he said no more. On the shore he replaced her sandals upon her now clean feet and put his boots on once more. Then, gingerly but excitedly, he hung his cloak about his neck and strapped his quiver and sword belt onto his person. Fethra waited patiently until he was through and then offered him her hand again.

As they walked up the small hill into the rangers' camp, a call rang through the air. A sprinting man stampeded through the trees, reaching Beregond. Breathlessly he exclaimed, "My Lord! My Lord! The King comes!"

The Captain of the White Guard's face fractured in shock and then settled into an expression of powerful relief. Legolas watched as he lifted his eyes to the blue sky, offering a momentary token of appreciation to the powers that be.

The thunder of many hooves striking the earth filled the air, and Fethra clung to Legolas' leg in fear as they walked to the edge of their camp. From the cover of the woods approached a great host of mounted men. Tall and proud were they and their mounts. Plate and chain mail shone and glimmered in the daylight richly, the fine craft adorning the warriors' bodies protectively. Their banners hung limp in the weak wind, but all present knew the standard well and cherished it. The White Tree of Gondor, shining elegantly like burnt silver against its field of sable, was the symbol to which all present owed his allegiance. Above the limbs of the tree rested a crown, and over that seven stars, marking the lore of the king's heritage. White banners flew as well, flawless and magnificent, and those belonged to the Steward.

Ahead of the company rode Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Upon his breast he wore plate of black, and the silvery tree spread across his chest as if to embrace him. The king appeared regal and powerful, and this was rightly so for he had been the first in millennia to sit upon the throne of the nation of Gondor. His face, lightly bearded, was stern and commanding, but Legolas had seen those gray eyes weep in laughter and that tense expression break in mischief. He was at once king and friend, leader and peer… different, yet always the same. His closest companion, a brother in fact who bore a spirit not so unlike his own. Though Legolas now served Aragorn's kingdom faithfully, never was he a subordinate, for the Elf was royalty himself, and even if he were not, Aragorn respected his skills, his thoughts, and his heart far too much to treat him as anything less than an equal.

Aragorn met Legolas' gaze. The two spoke much in the simple look. Then one of the men came forth to grasp the reins of Roheryn, Aragorn's mighty, albeit scruffy, steed. As the man dismounted, one of the others in the camp bellowed, his voice nearly cracking in euphoria, "All hail the King!"

The battle worn rangers and Elves paid their respects. Legolas made a fist and clasped it over his heart, lowering his eyes in respect, as Aragorn came to stand before him. A memory came to him, one of so long ago. Days before the Battle of Helm's Deep, all had been wrought with despair over Aragorn's supposed death. But the Elf had known better. A stifled grin came to his bowed face as he recalled the exchange. "You are late," he whispered softly in Elvish.

The comment had been meant for Aragorn's ears alone, and the ranger, never one to shy from a joke or friendly taunt, responded in fashion. A sly smile crept to the man's face. "You look terrible."

It would have been laughable, enjoyable even this private joke, were if not for his sad state and the beaten condition of his company. Aragorn sensed his distress and grasped his shoulder. Legolas looked up and meet his friend's eyes. In the stormy gray depths was deep worry and fear. The Elf imagined how wretched he  _did_  look, with his clothes stained in copious amounts blood and his face streaked with filth.

There came a loud grumble behind them and rough curse. "Ai, get me down from this fell beast!" Legolas glanced over Aragorn to see Gimli the Dwarf struggling to dismount Roheryn. The horse stood quite tall, and the distance between the ground and the saddle was formidable, even for a Dwarf so formidable as Gimli. Legolas could not help but smile weakly in amusement as the stout warrior was lifted from Roheryn's back by a few of Aragorn's men, complaining gruffly all the while.

Once sturdily placed on the forest floor, the Dwarf growled and raced towards his companions. "You crazy Elf!" he bellowed, his baritone nearly shaking the trees. Though his voice was curt, Legolas knew him too well not to detect the concern laced into his short words. As Gimli's eyes fell upon his dearest friend, he slowed in his movements, his face fast becoming open and wide with worry and care. Then Gimli recovered a bit and huffed. "It should have occurred to me the trouble into which you would undoubtedly find your way," he declared, his great, rusty beard shaking with the exhalation of a long, tired breath.

Aragorn chuckled, but the sound seemed trite and forced. He stared at Legolas with anxious eyes. "Tell me, my friend, where is Faramir?"

Into the Elf's mind crashed the panicked realization of the time they had wasted in greeting. He turned around sharply, suddenly terrified, and Fethra cried as she lost contact with him. "Come, Aragorn! You must aid him, for he fell and is badly wounded!"

"Leglass!" screeched the little girl as men rushed about her. "Leglass!"

Aragorn gripped his arm, his fingers like steel. His eyes were flashing, frantic. "Wounded? What has happened? We received word Cair Andros was…" The king's words died in his throat as Legolas led him into the camp. All around were the wounded, those dead and dying. The color drained from Aragorn's face as Legolas directed him to a small huddle of men.

"My King!" cried Beregond in joy, standing and offering his liege a solemn salute. The large man veritably trembled in relief.

Aragorn's eyes fell upon the form at their feet, and he was immediately on his knees beside his fallen Steward. Faramir's rasping breath was terribly loud, rattling in his chest before weakly pushing through dry, cracked lips. His eyelids were tightly closed. He seemed so very pale and weak, a distant shade of a strong man. Faramir was still, unmoving beneath the layers of cloaks and quilts covering him. Lifeless.

It took but a moment for Aragorn to recover from his shock, and then the king snapped into action. He laid his hand upon Faramir's brow. "How did he fall?"

Beregond answered quickly, watching his king intently. "He was hit, my Lord, and a dreadful arrow it was!"

Aragorn continued his rushed examination, years of experience and skill guiding his hands. He pulled back the blankets and grabbed Faramir's wrist, seeking his pulse. "Did you remove it?"

Legolas stiffened, and for a seeming eternity Aragorn's question went unanswered. Beregond afforded the Elf a pained look, imploring him to speak. The guilt rose up in Legolas, and he spit out the words. This was no time to consider his own pride! "I did, Aragorn, but I made a horrific mistake of it. The shaft snapped whilst I tried to pull it free, and I was forced to tear the wound wider…" He could go no further, for his voice failed him.

If his friend noticed his distress, he gave no indication, his swift fingers pulling open Faramir's tunic and the bandages covering the wound. Aragorn's eyes narrowed as he prodded the seeping injury. In a second he determined what Legolas had spent hours dreading. "He is poisoned." The Elf bowed his head in angry grief and Beregond released a shaking breath. The king continued his analysis in a hushed tone, as though rattling the facts to himself. "This is a devious toxin, for the signs are subtle. Yet this discharge here is disturbing." Aragorn fingered the reddish pus that had before gone unnoticed from where it had formed along the torn, enflamed flesh. The king dropped his hand in anger and dismay, wiping it on his breeches. "How long has he been as such?"

Beregond was quick to answer. "Hours, my Lord."

"Then we have little time. Quickly, we must get him to Minas Tirith!"

A cacophony of running feet and shouting men filled the camp. Vaguely Legolas heard Fethra crying and Gimli yelling to him. However, the world closed about him because all his senses become entrenched upon Faramir. On his limp, dying body. On his closed eyes and weak breath. On the quivering want for life. Aragorn was relaying orders to his men, and the soldiers of Gondor brought forth his horse.

Legolas grabbed Faramir's feet, ignoring the sharp pain stabbing through his side, and lifted the ranger's form. Aragorn and Beregond carried his upper body, and together they moved with all the speed they could manage to the horses. Roheryn stood ready. "Are you steady?" asked Aragorn in a rushed voice, and Legolas merely nodded. Then the king mounted his great horse. "Hand him to me!"

The Elf and the man struggled to lift Faramir to his king's outstretched arms, but their burden was heavier than he seemed and Legolas found his strength fleeting. Thankfully Mablung and another came to add their efforts. A few grunts and moments of strain later, Faramir was settled securely in Aragorn's embrace. Beregond then turned and called for one of the rangers to bring forth Hasufel. There was no question; this was Beregond's duty, and where his charge went he would follow without doubt or fear. The responsibility and guilt shone in the man's eyes.

Legolas felt the same, shame squeezing his heart like a vice. He meant to summon Arod, but his breath failed him. He nearly doubled over as the pain in his side suddenly flared. He could do naught but breathe for an instant, struggling to ride out the waves of paralyzing hurt. Aragorn reached down and grasped his shoulder. The king's eyes were wide with horror. Clearly he had not previously noticed his dear friend's injured state. "Are you well, Legolas?" he asked softly in Elvish, his voice betraying his fears.

The Elf brushed away his concern and nodded, swallowing and trying to moisten a suddenly dry mouth. "I will ride with you."

Aragorn shook his head firmly. "Nay, you are wearied and wounded." The authority in Aragorn's tone left no room to argue, though the Elf liked not the response. "Follow us to Minas Tirith as soon as you are able." The king saw the frustration swirl in Legolas' bright blue eyes and offered him a reassuring nod. Though no more words were shared, the Elf understood what had remained unspoken.  _I will care for him now. Do not fear. I will save him. I am King._

Then Aragorn nudged Roheryn into a gallop. Beregond was beside his liege atop Hasufel, the great gray beast complacent with the gravity of his rider's mood. A great stampede filled the woods as the men turned and rode back whence they came. Pulverized dust and leaves sprayed into the air. The banners whipped in the wind as their bearers tore through the maze of trunks. In a blink and a heartbeat, they were gone.

Silence.

Then Legolas released a breath he did not realize he had been holding. The Elf slumped his shoulders, feeling wretched and useless, and he bowed his head. Every bruise and cut he felt anew then, those on his heart and on his body. His eyes slipped shut.  _I failed him. I failed him._

There was a sound beside him. Slowly he turned, his senses dulled by exhausted and misery, his body feeling unusually leaden.

Fethra flung herself around Legolas' leg, and the force of her nearly toppled him. She was babbling excitedly about all the horses and men, and idly in the back of his mind Legolas was at least heartened by her ignorance of the darker matters.

The Dwarf was beside him. Gimli huffed, touching his arm gently. "Come on, lad. He will be alright. The hands of the king are the hands of a healer. You know this." He did know this, but understanding that fact did little to ease him. Still, he was tired enough to allow Gimli to lead him away, back to the camp. Fethra sought his hand with her own, tugging on him until he wrapped his fingers about hers.

There was talking between the child and the Dwarf. The exchange of names. Fethra seemed a bit frightened of the stout warrior, but he boisterously and loudly proclaimed his friendly intentions. She laughed at his antics, and Legolas gave a weak smile. Gimli questioned Legolas of her, and he numbly supplied the information. In his daze he acted and spoke but without purpose or meaning, and nothing reached his attention. He was drawn into a swirl of doubtful, angry misery.  _The hands of the king are the hands of a healer… These hands, though… these are the hands of a failure._

It was wrong and sour and all too familiar a thing from his youth. He banished the dark thought immediately, recognizing it for its falsehood and foolishness, and let into this heart the sun and warmth of love and companionship. For Fethra had grasped tighter to his hand, holding to it with all her little being. He was not a failure to her. And that, for the time being at least, made all the difference.


	6. Homecoming

Dusk was falling over the White City, bringing with it the early autumn chill. Long shadows stretched from the buildings, reaching with fat fingers tiredly across the busy streets. This city was weary this eve, and it was obvious that a sort of melancholy had drained the energy from its once vibrant people. Lethargy oozed from the pores in the cobblestone streets, from the chinks in roofs, from the cracks in windowpanes, and from tiny holes in the great gates. The cold air descending from the mountains had cooled the pulse of life, and though the city's denizens still flooded the roads and markets with work and daily activity, they did so without flare or energy. This was the spell of mourning, and the banners of the king flew weakly and solemnly in the wind atop the Citadel. Peace had been broken for the first time in two years. Everything that had seemed so sure, so certain and wonderful, now was under question. It was a harsh reality and a disquieting prospect.

Through the outer gates rode the weary company. There was no hero's welcome, no trumpets blaring clear, proud notes to proclaim of a triumphant return. It had not been expected. The gate guards watched their entrance with lowered, sympathetic eyes. With the rushed arrival of the king hours before, word had spread quickly of the slaughter of Cair Andros and the ambush of the Steward's company. Tension deep in its intensity had claimed all of Minas Tirith since then, and in the minds of the people swirled doubt, fear, and many unanswered questions. Most were preoccupied with this veiled threat, and they did not notice the beaten company slip back into their midst like a wounded, skulking dog with its tail tucked between its legs.

Legolas sighed, standing at the opened gate until all of his companions entered the safety of Minas Tirith. For hundreds of feet on both sides stretched a tall wall of impenetrable stone. Long had this barricade guarded the White City, the seat of the civilization of men in Middle Earth. Taller than the height of ten men, forever was it a silent, stalwart sentinel. It did not buckle, whether the enemy be wind or demon. This was the Gateway, and it had forever guarded its charge with tireless grace and strength.

The gate guard saluted him, his eyes averted and his stance cautious. "My Prince," he said, glancing to the train of exhausted men, Elves, and horses as they rode past.

Legolas nodded at him. A cold breeze picked by them, ruffling the Elf's hair and clothes. "The King?" he inquired.

"With the Queen, sir, unless I am mistaken."

"And the Steward?"

The man's face scrunched, obviously uncomfortable with the Elf's interrogation. "I know not. King Elessar has ordered the Houses of Healing prepared for your arrival and requested that you immediately direct your men to it."

"I will."

Now the man seemed to acquire an air of courage, for his eyes, hooded by the ornate steel of his helm, hardened with a glint of confidence. "He specifically requested, sir, that I make it clear to you that you are included in said orders."

 _How presumptuous…_  The Elf prince gritted his teeth in a mixture of annoyance and amusement.  _How like Aragorn!_  It was a hardly disputed fact, he supposed, that he had in the past been less than diligent with the treatment of his own wounds. He was rarely injured, but when he was, he found the hurt to his pride was more painful. Elves were not infallible, but he did not like to make a burden of himself. So more often than not he kept his discomforts to himself, bearing injury in silence. Such was the way, really, of his kind. Aragorn was the first creature he had ever encountered who so stubbornly disliked such behavior. Though he was thousands of years the ranger's senior, the man had taken a simultaneously endearing and annoying role in their friendship, that of an older brother constantly caring for the younger brother's well-being. Many times had Legolas chided his friend, reminding him that he was an experienced warrior that could easily take care of himself. During their trials as a Fellowship, it appeared that Aragorn had finally relented, turning his protective gaze to Frodo. Old habits died hard, it seemed.

The Elf released a slow breath. Perhaps it was not such a silly whim after all. Perhaps he should stuff his pride this once and seek aid for his hurts. Gimli's booming voice came to him in a memory of a few hours ago when the company had begun their ride.  _"You fool Elf… You are wounded. Come, ride your silly horse! I can walk!"_  Most of the horses were too weary now to carry more than one rider. Of course the wounded were given mounts so as to ease the journey for them. Tired as the men were, they were forced to walk, and thus their pace slowed considerably. Arod was fatigued as well, though the horse, much like his master, sought to hide it. Legolas had placed Gimli and Fethra on the white stallion's back; for the duration of their traveling, he had walked steadily at their side, leading the horse with a whisper or touch. And all the while, Gimli had reprimanded him for his stubbornness.  _"For the sake of all that is good, Elf,_  ride  _this beast! You cannot hide your fatigue from me, you witless creature! You drive me mad with your foolish behavior, mad!"_  A small smile crept to Legolas' dirty face.

Still, the Elf was beginning to see the truth in the Dwarf's words. He had wanted to walk, feeling such a gesture might encourage the beaten company. At that juncture he had still been their commander and it seemed rather haughty of him to ask them to make this journey on foot so wearied when he himself had the comfort of a horse. Now he realized the foolishness of such a thought. His feet felt leaden, stiff from misuse. Every muscle in his body was tight and knotted, each protesting movement with a painful spasm. His side was so sore that breathing was beginning to become a trying venture, and his left arm was practically useless, limp and unbending. A dull agony had settled into his shoulder and he became quite certain he had torn the flesh inside when the Easterling had rammed him. Days of restlessness and insomnia were leaving him slightly dizzy, his head pained and his eyes slow to focus at times. Undoubtedly his adamant decision to walk the distance with his comrades had only augmented the torment to his already abused body.

He nodded to the guard tiredly, finding no voice or reason to object. The rear of the company was now passing, composed of the Elven warriors. He stepped up to Valandil, trying to hide both the limp crawling into his gait and the grimace from his face. "Send word forth," Legolas instructed the tall Elf, who was perched atop his great, dark horse, "that all of the company in need of care follow me to the Houses of Healing." The Elf prince paused a moment in contemplation, Valandil waiting expectantly for him to continue with his orders. Then Legolas' eyes narrowed and he stepped closer to the other. "I must ask a favor of you, Valandil."

The other Elf reined in his mount, giving his lord his fullest attention. "Speak it, Legolas. I will do whatever you need of me."

Legolas smiled, heartened by his comrade's words. During their march back to Minas Tirith he had become better acquainted with Valandil and found his earlier misgivings about the Elf's opinion of him premature. Valandil had lived in Rivendell and had served Lord Elrond faithfully as a guardsman for many centuries. He was an Elf of bright eyes, loyal and true of heart. He was quite a few years younger than Legolas but no less calm or reliable. Dark blue eyes radiated youth and exuberance. Though the pain of losing Tathar was still fresh upon Legolas' heart, it much relieved him to have found a good friend in Valandil. "Ride back to Ithilien and have Velathir prepare for war." Valandil's blue eyes widened slightly at his lord's words. Legolas spoke quickly, seeing the other's distress and curiosity. "I do not know if it will come to that, but should it, we must be prepared. Return with as many soldiers as we can spare. If the King asks it of us, we shall be ready to aid him."

Valandil did not speak a moment, as if wondering at the reality of all that was happening. Then he nodded. "Of course, my Lord. I will do as you ask and return with what force I can immediately."

"Speak of this to none save Velathir."

Valandil wheeled around his steed. With a whisper the lanky, dark-haired Elf bid his horse to run, and he thundered back from whence they had moments before came with renewed fervor. Legolas watched him fly across Pelennor Fields. Then his eyes swept over the plains, the dry grasses washed in bloody light by the setting sun. A cold wind tickled him, and he was barely able to stifle a shudder. He prayed these fields would not again be the site of such terrible battle.

There was a snort behind him, followed by a loud giggle. Legolas pivoted and stepped back, forcing a weary smile to his face at seeing his friends. Gimli was holding to Arod's mane as if his life depended on the grasp, Fethra sitting before him and laughing about his bristly beard tickling her face. "Come on, Master Elf. We are home."

 _Home. Is that what this place has become?_  The Elf swept his gaze upward, admiring the Tower of Ecthelion as it gleamed in the sunset. Yet here too the sun painted the silvery stones a sick red, washing the White City in crimson. In blood. Legolas forced the image from his mind.

He stepped up alongside Arod, patting his horse gently on the neck, before leading them into the city. As they passed through the great gate, guards saluted from their posts. Legolas and Gimli were revered as heroes and friends of the king, and all paid them the utmost respect. The Elf felt unworthy of it at that moment, returning their admiration with gratitude borne from only propriety.

When the last of the warriors had entered, a call went out to close the Gateway. There came a grumble of large gears grinding against one another, of straining men. The rattling of chain grew loud, and with a booming rumble the massive doors began to swing shut. Fethra turned around, her eyes wide in wonderment, as the gate slowly closed. Obviously she had never seen anything so huge before; she observed with childish awe until finally, with a great, shaking clang, the gate was closed.

She swiveled around atop Arod. "Can they do it again, Leglass?"

Despite his exhaustion, the Elf smiled. "Not right now, little one."

They walked then, weaving through the masses of people on the streets, following the soldier in front of them. Minas Tirith was busy, though suppertime was nearly upon them. Those on the road paid their procession both unabashed stares of dismay and sympathetic glances. Fethra's eyes were wide as she gawked, astounded by the sight of so many people. Carts rattled by them, and merchants shouted their wares and prices over the din. Rows of shops and houses lined the street, most well kept and pristine in appearance. They passed through the next gate and the one after that, slowly making their way to the heart of Minas Tirith where the Houses of Healing and the king's Citadel lay. The great metropolis of men was skillfully designed so that seven gates, including the colossal Gateway, completely encompassed the Tower of Ecthelion and the king's manor. It was a strategic layout; any besieging army would have to pass through these strong fortifications to reach the royal family and thus take Minas Tirith. The walls were semi-circles of sorts, each smaller than the one preceding it. Into the Mindolluin, the grand mountain that housed the base of the White Tower, they rose and melded, leaving an invading force no choice but to surmount them in order to reach the king. To Legolas' knowledge, no enemy had ever reached the Citadel.

Arod slowed his pace, casting worried brown eyes upon his master. Legolas was limping badly; hiding it was becoming too difficult. He rested his hand on the white stallion's neck to assure the horse he was well. He had walked this far. He would not collapse now. To keep his mind from the hurt, he concentrated on Gimli. The Dwarf had been explaining the grand city to Fethra as they walked with no small amount of joy.

"This Elf here would have you believe that this city is a mere collection of rock and stone, dear," announced Gimli. Fethra turned to look at her Dwarven friend, her face scrunched in excitement. "But look about you! The Gateway is but one example of the architectural beauty! And these are no small feats, these things. We Dwarves have a fine eye for the way light strikes the smooth surface of finely crafted stone. Look, there! Do you see how the sun lights the Tower? Many hands for many years labored to polish the pieces to form such a seamless pattern. Each stone is but a stone, simple and insignificant. But together they create such a marvelous sight that glows like silver in the sun…" Gimli's voice grew almost wistful as his eyes gazed lovingly at the climbing structure. "Do you see, my child?"

Fethra watched the Tower of Ecthelion a moment, her eyes rising up its shining edge, tracing the elegant lines as it rose to the pearly clouds aloft. "Tall," she said. Her face broke into a large smile. "And pretty! It glows like Leglass!"

The Elf grinned. He could not suppress a laugh as Gimli flushed, flummoxed at her analogy. Never before had their arguments over the splendor of trees and stones been settled so easily. Then the Dwarf gave a great guffaw and patted Fethra's head gently with his gloved hand. "Impossible as it may seem, I will make a little Dwarf of you yet!"

Legolas chuckled at his dear friend's words. "You will not corrupt this one, stubborn Dwarf. I will not have it!" he baited. He had missed Gimli's presence these few weeks past. The Dwarf had been tending to the Glittering Caves near Edoras and thus absent from Ithilien. He would never admit the fact to his stout, gruff companion, but he had been quite lonely without the other to goad him into futile quarrel.

Gimli huffed, making a show of his false vexation for Fethra's amusement. She giggled musically when his beard ruffled with his huge breath. "Woe to you, Fethra, for finding yourself such an insufferable creature! He speaks with trees and stars, my dear, speaks and listens to them. Elves do not appreciate the beauty of simple, sturdy things like stones and earth. These are the dependable facets of life! Atop a tree one might fall, and the stars flit across the sky for the mere sake of flitting. But here, in this city, there is no rock that would not support you!"

Legolas doubted Fethra understood any of their exchange, but her delight was evident upon her face as Gimli went on about silly Elves and the might of Dwarves, waving his arms ridiculously to emphasize the glamour of his arguments.

They entered the sixth gate, upon which flew the banners of the king. This was a less crowded place, for entrance was a bit more restricted. The Tower of Ecthelion was very large now and broad, reaching far into the sky as if longing for the caress of the clouds. From a distance one might misjudge its enormity. Yet, standing thence and looking upward, it became immediately obvious that this building was a feat of architectural prowess that was rivaled perhaps only by the once prosperous towers of Orthanc and Minas Ithil. At its foot was the king's Citadel, a place few save the nobility of Gondor and their servants entered.

On the southward wall of this clean and quiet street were the Houses of Healing. It was a fair structure, large but rather unremarkable in appearance. Its courtyard, however, was lavished with much beauty in both greenery and sculpture. They walked a bit further, reaching the entrance to the area. A plethora of healers and their apprentices awaited their arrival. Legolas halted, watching as the wearied men helped their wounded compatriots into the sanctuary. He found himself itching in worry over Faramir.

Arod nibbled at his cheek affectionately, reminding the tired Elf to move. Legolas turned, hearing footsteps behind him.

"Legolas." It was Éomer. The young king of Rohan approached. Ringlets of dirty blond hair fell about a strong face. He was handsome, with dark, piercing eyes and a vehement jaw. He held his shoulders high; in the short time he had been ruler of Rohan, he had acquired all the regal stature of a king. Éomer had been the nephew of King Théoden, and after the elder man's unfortunate demise at Pelennor Fields, the young son of Éomund had inherited the throne. Théoden's own heir, Théodred, had been killed some time prior, and with him went the last of the House of Eorl. Legolas had known the horseman but a brief period, but Éomer had proven himself repeatedly that he was utterly reliable, if not a bit cocky and headstrong. He was a valuable ally and a good friend.

The last time the two had met had been weeks earlier, when Gimli had joined Éomer's return to Rohan. The two must have returned to Minas Tirith not long ago. Legolas could not remember having heard of their arrival in Gondor, realizing once more with chagrin how completely detached he had become from such affairs. Exhaustion made a mess of the most simple of recollections.

Éomer's face broke its hard expression when he spied Legolas' sad state. He lowered his eyes in a token of grief. "I am sorry. I have heard the news."

The Elf only lowered his eyes, stroking Arod's neck absently. He had lost the will to voice his grief and guilt over the disaster that had befallen them. There were no words adequate, and it was made worse by the fact that Faramir was Éomer's brother by marriage. If there were apologies to be made, Legolas was the one who needed to make them.

Gimli grumbled a bit. "If you would be so kind, horse lord, as to help the child and me down from this beast. The Elf thinks himself clever for his deception, but he heavily favors his right leg and he has not lifted his left arm from his side since entering this city. I doubt he can be of such service!"

Legolas shot Gimli an annoyed glare, which the Dwarf made a smug point of ignoring. Éomer looked to the Elf prince a moment more, as if to see for himself the truth in Gimli's words, before turning to Arod. The white horse skittered a bit with the unfamiliar touch, but Legolas steadied him and he soon enough recognized Éomer and quit his fidgeting. The young king looked at Fethra and smiled. She gave him a little bit of grin back. It was comforting to Legolas that she was beginning to trust people again, at least enough not to immediately run to the Elf when she met someone new. Already she had accepted Gimli as a friend, and that was encouraging. She might yet recover from the horror inflicted upon her. "Hello," Éomer said softly. "I am Éomer. Who are you?"

Her eyes were a bit frightened, but she answered him. "Fethra."

Éomer's smile grew broader and warmer. "Fethra. That is a beautiful name! Shall I lift you down, Fethra?"

She was uncertain at first, casting a pleading look to Legolas. He reached up to her with his good arm and stroked her head in comfort. "He is a friend," he said. She lingered, torn between her doubt and her trust in Legolas, for only a moment before nodding and tentatively reaching her arms out to Éomer.

The king chuckled as he took her into his embrace. It was clear Éomer understood who she was and what she meant by the sad glint that had flashed through his eyes. When the demented wizard Saruman's Uruk-hai had attacked the villages of Rohan during the War of the Ring, many such children had been left, stricken, filthy, hungry, and alone.

He set the girl to the ground and she immediately ran around Arod to Legolas, latching upon his leg with a grip of steel. She regarded him with wide, yearning eyes, reaching up. Obviously she wanted to be held, but his side was so stiff and his arm so pained that he doubted he could even lean down to grasp her. Instead he stroked her hair, shaking his head a few times. Pouting, she stuck her thumb in her mouth.

Éomer had succeeded in unseating Gimli, and the Dwarf brushed at his armor to clear away the dust from riding. Then the king of Rohan turned to them. "I shall take care of Arod for you, Legolas."

The Elf shook his head. Already his pride was spiteful; it was obvious that Éomer thought he needed care from the healers. He was no invalid! Yet he knew sadly that, despite his ego's infallibility, he was not so well endowed. The young king had detected Legolas' reluctance and spoke more on the matter. "It is no bother. I am dispatched by the King to send for my sister in Emyn Arnen. With the attack, the King worries for her safety should she ride here alone."

Legolas could not help but smile when he considered the Lady Éowyn's reaction to such a thought. She was not easily subdued, and with a wit and tongue as cold as her fair face, she easily expressed her mind on matters like these. "If it is no trouble…"

"Nay. Go inside and seek comfort."

The thought was too alluring to brush aside. He took Arod's face in his gentle hands, and with long fingers caressed the horse's muzzle lovingly.  _Thank you for protecting me, my friend. Take your rest as well._  Arod seemed to understand his unspoken thought, pressing his cold nose to Legolas' palm. Then Éomer patted him, and obediently he turned, lowering his head as he followed the horse master to the stables.

Gimli shook his head. "Your ways with that beast confound me, Elf."

Legolas looked to his friend and smiled grimly. "He would obey you as well, Master Dwarf, if you offered him a bit of affection." Gimli grunted in annoyance as they turned and headed inside.

* * *

An hour passed.

In the Houses of Healing, it went quickly, the seconds and minutes flying by as though they never existed. Here there was much to do. The place was chaotic, healers rushing about with herbs and bandages. All about were the wounded men of the battle, lying comfortably as their injuries were dressed. Lacerations were sewed and disinfected, and broken bones were set and secured. Over this controlled pandemonium was a solemn air of understanding and of fear. In the back of each mind where doubts and worries buzzed and whined was the thought that perhaps this would be but the beginning, that perhaps these houses would be inundated with the dying again. Should there be war. Should this peace end.

Legolas sighed and lowered his head. His eyes been intent upon Faramir's sleeping form, and now he could bear to look no longer. At first his stare had been hopeful; perhaps during his vigil he would detect a bit of movement. Perhaps Faramir would awake, if only to dismiss Legolas' fears. But, as time marched lethargically onward, he found each minute became a reminder of Faramir's sickness, of one more moment in which his friend lay still as death. Time was slow to the Elf, doing little to mend his heart, leaving his guilt and pain to fester. Ioreth, a kindly, elderly woman who had for years served the healers of Minas Tirith, had informed him that the steward was merely resting, that the king had cured his body of the poison. The wound would pose no more threat to him, and he would quickly and completely recover. Still, Legolas could not shake his guilt. It had driven him, driven him to dig out that arrow head with his knife, driven him to take control of the men and flee Cair Andros, driven him to walk the distance to Minas Tirith. It had driven him here, seeking no care for himself, to watch over Faramir with this silly hope that the sleeping ranger would simply awake. He had left Fethra with Gimli, for even his love for her could not keep this shame at bay. Alone now he wallowed in it. For the agony he had caused Faramir, he deserved naught but suffering.

The door slowly cracked open. Startled, Legolas turned abruptly in his seat and was rewarded with a stab of pain that he could not hide.

"Legolas?" Aragorn stood at the door. His bearded face was obviously concerned, his eyes confused at his friend's seclusion. Obviously he had not missed the Elf's grimace. "Gimli said you had all but disappeared."

The Elf averted his eyes, ashamed at his turmoil and even more so at his weakness in allowing it to be noticed. It had likely been inevitable; Aragorn had known him far too long to miss the Elf's anguish. Still, he doubted he possessed the emotional fortitude to stand his friend's worry and displeasure.

Aragorn released a slow breath, stepping lightly inside the small room and closing the door behind him. For a long time, neither spoke. The silence was a bit awkward, wrought with concern and guilt. Legolas watched Faramir's face, hoping anew for some sign of movement. At least now an expression of comfort and peace had claimed the Steward, though to the Elf's weary eyes, the ghost of agony still haunted the young countenance. "He will be well," Aragorn finally offered.

"Lady Ioreth said as much."

Emptiness again. Legolas felt Aragorn's soft footfalls. The king stood behind him and laid a strong hand upon his shoulder. "Have you seen a healer yet, my friend?" Legolas did not answer, and Aragorn took his quiet as a negative. The king stepped around the chair and knelt before him, his eyes concerned but scolding. "Then you will see me. And I will not have an argument over the resilience of Elves, or that my skills are needed elsewhere. You suffer needlessly, Legolas, and it pains me greatly when you do such a thing to yourself."

"I do nothing to myself that I do not deserve," hissed the Elf grimly, angered at Aragorn's presumptuous tone and furious with himself for worrying his friend.

Aragorn was not immune to his own frustration, and he grabbed his arm and lifted him from the chair. The Elf winced and groaned with the motion. The king frowned for a moment before grasping his friend's shoulders to steady him. "Stop this, Legolas. You did the right thing. Had you not removed that arrow, he would have bled to death. Do not blame yourself for the nature of things. The attack was beyond your control!" Cold blue eyes met fiery gray ones. "Faramir will not fault you for the pain you caused him. You saved his life. I think he will be more than grateful. What you did required a fair amount of courage, and that is not to be taken lightly! Now cast aside your shame; you do us all an injustice with it. I need your guidance and strength. Please."

The reprimand in Aragorn's words was enough to break through the murk surrounding his spirit. How well Aragorn knew him! How wise was the king! His words were enough to assuage Legolas' guilt, at least for the moment. "You are right," he breathed. He offered Aragorn a relieved, crooked smile. "As you always are."

Aragorn offered a smile of his own. "Nay, my friend. Oft the eyes of an observer have the clearest sight. Now let me see your wounds. Gimli is greatly worried about you, though he will not openly say as much."

The Elf did not care to be examined, poked, or prodded, and they both knew it. But Aragorn's face was stern and his jaw was set. There would be no denying the king's orders. Drawing a slow breath, Legolas set to undoing the clasps of his green jerkin. Tenderly he slid the bloodied, ripped garment down as best as he could. His left arm had become so terribly stiff. His tunic followed slowly, as he was having a hard time of getting his useless arm free from its sleeve. After a few moments, he managed to remove the clothing.

A pained look crossed Aragorn's face, but it was quickly replaced by the calm visage of an experienced healer. The entirety of Legolas' left side and breast was a mottled mess of bloody bruises. The skin was so discolored with blues and purples and reds that the Elf wondered worriedly if he was not imagining what he saw. At his shoulder was the worst of it, where the Easterling's spike guard had dug into his skin. Dried, crusted blood covered the multitude of enflamed puncture wounds. The bruising continued down his arm a bit. The hideous appearance of the injury surprised the Elf and man alike.

"You should have sought aid immediately. Delaying has made this worse." Gently Aragorn pressed about the chest area, obviously searching for signs of damage to the ribs. Legolas made no sound at the pain his careful inspection caused, standing stiff and tensing his muscles to remain silent. "It seems none of the bones have been broken," remarked the King. He rose from his crouch. "Can you lift your arm?"

Legolas sighed gently. "I doubt," he responded, the tension in his voice betraying his discomfort.

Aragorn took the limb by the Elf's wrist and flashed his friend an apologetic glance. "This will hurt a bit," he admitted quietly. He pulled Legolas' arm from his chest and extended it so that it was held straight before him. The Elf groaned, unable to keep quiet with this handling, forcing the muscles of his arm to be as limp and receptive as possible to Aragorn's ministrations. Satisfied with this motion, the king pushed the arm back and bade Legolas to hold it a steady plane with his shoulders. The movement was excruciating.

Finally Aragorn dropped his wrist, and the archer released a quaking breath. "Your shoulder was not dislocated," the king surmised when Legolas again caught his wind. "You were lucky, my friend. I suspect you have torn the muscles, but you will heal quickly." Leaving Legolas, Aragorn stepped quickly to the shelves. His quick eyes analyzed vials, flasks full of fluids, and jars of herbs. Finally he grabbed a sprig of some plant and a small brown pot.

All of Legolas' pride melted away. Wearied, he leaned on the post of Faramir's bed as Aragorn plucked a few of the small, green leaves from the herb. He offered them to the Elf. "Chew these. It will dull the pain."

Feeling a bit facetious, Legolas took the leaves and cocked a fine eyebrow. "Elvish medicine?" he asked.

Aragorn eyes were sly. "A natural remedy." He watched only long enough to ensure himself that the Elf did indeed put the leaves in his mouth before kneeling before him.

The king removed the lid from the old jar as Legolas began to chew. A most terrible smell assailed his nose, and his tongue nearly shriveled. He resisted the urge to gag and spit the unpleasant things from his mouth. "These must be the foulest tasting plants in all of Middle Earth, Aragorn."

Aragorn smiled devilishly, evidently quite pleased with himself. "Only the finest for you, dear Legolas." Dipping his hands into the pot he had procured, the man produced a bluish salve. This he applied to the bruised skin, gently smoothing it over the mottled area. Legolas jerked from both the painful motion and the chill of the stuff. His head was pulsing with all this movement and hurt.

They were silent for a while, the void fill with Faramir's soft breathing. In the quiet, Legolas' mind began to clear as he chewed, the pain fading into a haze. Aragorn finished applying the medicinal salve, and he stood, seeking a basin of water and some cloth. Legolas watched him with keen eyes, and not for the first time did he count himself most fortunate for finding fellowship with the other. In all their long years, their bond had grown deep. He valued it, knowing deep within him that Aragorn would never falter in his loyalty, in his love.

Carrying the water, Aragorn returned. He dipped a cloth into the steaming liquid and wiped at the lacerations on Legolas' shoulder. "The child was the only survivor."

The sudden talk ripped the Elf from pleasant thoughts of the past and future and bringing him slamming back into the troubles of the present. Aragorn did not look at him, perhaps hiding his own rage over the massacre of Cair Andros, perhaps to shield from the Elf his own trepidation and grief. Aragorn's words had not been a question, but Legolas felt the need to answer his friend all the same. "Yes." His tone was soft, laden with sorrow.

Aragorn finished cleaning the wounds, his eyes narrowed in concentration. "Beregond explained much of it to me, but I would like your thoughts as well." He reached for more of the balm, dipping his hands into the oily substance before again applying it to the open wounds.

Legolas lowered his gaze, trying desperately to remain stoic. "I know not their intentions, Aragorn, but I believe something far darker and deeper drove them. The Easterlings had no cause to attack such an outpost; flippancy and wanton depravity are not reason enough." The Elf's eyes grew hard and dark. "They meant for us to find their standard. This was a planned act, meticulous and coldly calculated. They suspected a desperate plea for aid from a ravaged city would draw us into their trap, and their thoughts were well founded. Faramir suspected this savage act to be a message, and I agree."

"But to what end?" questioned the king. Legolas' words obviously unsettled him, for he greatly valued the opinions of the Elf. "We know they are of lesser strength, and Cair Andros is of less strategic importance to Gondor now that we have fortified Ithilien. Surely they do not intend to provoke war."

Legolas shook his head. "I cannot give you these answers, Aragorn, though I worry there is more behind this. Much more." He released a slow breath. Aragorn was his truest friend and his king; he could not rightfully hold from him any thought on this danger he might have. "My dreams have been dark of late. For days has sleep eluded me, and until now I attributed its mulishness to my own unease over governing my colony." He looked up and met Aragorn's eyes. "Yet it is clear to me that this is no imagining of my own. My spirit shudders with warning. A vile plot is afoot. Some great evil is coming to your kingdom."

Aragorn's voice dropped to a hushed whisper, his face pale. "You are certain?"

The prince held Aragorn's gaze. For all his want, for all his doubt and fear, he could not lie. "No," he admitted. Still, he would not allow his own doubt concerning these ambiguous forebodings to deny Aragorn whatever foresight they could offer. "The land speaks to me. I taste the wind, and it is salty as though it were a breath of tears and blood. The forests of Ithilien are hampered by the grasp of some black shadow. They scream to me of some peril, some danger shrouded in great secrecy and malicious lies, and for all I try in wake I cannot make sense of it! Each night I think on it, and never does it become clear. Dawn comes and I am left with fatigue and frustration. Oft have I tried to convince myself that this is all some figment of my own imagination, that a fatigued and tormented mind begets only more of the same, but I just cannot." Aggravation and embarrassment crawled over him, and he dropped his gaze. "I speak in riddles. Ai, Aragorn, I fear I am becoming quite daft."

A long moment slipped away, stretched by their worries and fears. Legolas watched Aragorn expectantly, hoping for a hint of acceptance, of relief, of assurance that he was not simply losing his mind. The king finally nodded and smiled a bit, patting Legolas' unwounded shoulder. Then he acquired bandages from a cabinet full of linens and returned to his friend. In silence he began to wrap the supportive cloth about Legolas' bruised chest. Tension pushed its way into the emptiness, and neither knew what to make of what the Elf had revealed.

Aragorn tied tightly the ends of the linens before reaching for another neatly rolled dressing. "Do you suspect the girl was left alive for some wicked purpose?"

Legolas jolted. It would be a self-serving lie for him to think the prospect had not previously occurred to him. Still, it was so brutal and wrong, so horrifically heinous… His eyes flashed in protective fury. "If she was… I see no evidence of such manipulation. She is only a child."

"You are swayed by a duty you perceive you now possess, my friend, and I do not blame you. I have met her as well; she is a beautiful child and quite endearing. As much as I would like to deny it, it does indeed plague my mind. If our enemy is as clever as we suppose, it seems an obvious conclusion."

"She means us no harm, Aragorn. This child has been brutalized. If she plays part in some plot, she does so unwittingly!"

Aragorn stared at him, surprised at the defensive tone in his voice. When the timbre of his words sunk into his tired mind, Legolas lowered his gaze in shame. "I am sorry. The thought of the horror she has witnessed brings such anger to me, and I have… I am her protector now."

The king absorbed his explanation a moment, and then his shocked expression dissolved into a knowing smile. "Aye, and a fine protector you are, Legolas. She is quite taken with you."

Legolas grinned, his eyes softening. The thought greatly pleased him. Aragorn finished with dressing his wounds, and already the Elf's state was improved. He knew not whether his relief was due to the analgesic power of those leaves simply easing his hurts or his friend's solace easing his spirit. Likely it was both. The king said, "This arm will be sore a few days yet. Limit strenuous activity, my friend, as the flesh inside is tender and torn."

The Elf nodded, and Aragorn helped him back into his clothes. "Take some rest. We shall discuss this matter on the morrow, when Éomer returns from Emyn Arnen. Hopefully then more will be apparent to us."

Legolas nodded, his fingers quickly buttoning his tunic shut. Aragorn stepped around him, coming to stand beside the bed where Faramir slept. The king laid his hand compassionately atop Faramir's brow, smoothing the light brown hair comfortingly. He pressed his index and middle fingers to the steward's neck. Satisfied, he whispered a few words to the sleeping man.

The Elf watched, and for the first time he looked upon Faramir without the pounding of his guilt assailing his mind. He reached down and grasped Faramir's hand, wrapping it between both of his own. Then he closed his eyes and whispered an Elvish blessing.  _Sleep well tonight, my friend. May vitality find your body in rest, and may peace find your heart in dreams._

Then he turned. Aragorn stood tall as he strolled to the door. "I do not know what may come of this. Still, we should be ready, and we will need the aid of your people on the field, should it come to war."

Legolas gave a sad smile. "I have already sent word back to Ithilien. Whatever forces we can spare will be at your disposal."

Aragorn opened the door and stood in it, looking back at his friend. He smiled in return, though his was marked by laughter and amusement. "You may have your doubts but you are a leader. It was born into you, my prince."

The Elf shot Aragorn a pathetic attempt at a withering glare. "How funny you say such a thing, my king. As I recall, it was I who spoke the very same encouraging words to you but a few years back. You are really one to talk."

Aragorn laughed. "Good night, Legolas."

The Elf made an attempt at a grand bow, but his side hurt too much and he faltered, resulting in a curse falling from his lips and a greater laugh from Aragorn. Legolas smiled at their frivolity. "Good night, my Lord."

* * *

Night came to the city, bringing with it the smell of an inclement storm. The air was taut, filled with an ominous smell of rain. Upon the horizon loomed dark, black thunderheads, rumbling angrily and proclaiming their intent to sunder the city with a hard rain. It was a late summer tempest, the sort that came unexpectedly when the leaves were just beginning to turn. From the size of the dark clouds, it was obvious this one would be quite loud and powerful.

The streets were beginning to empty as people sought cover from the imminent squall. Legolas held tight to Fethra, easily supporting her sleeping form against his uninjured shoulder with his right arm. She had succumbed to an exhausted slumber while Legolas had met with Aragorn. According to Gimli, the child had been examined thoroughly, bathed, clothed in a new red dress, and then fed with a bit of Ioreth's meaty stew. Not unexpectedly, she had dozed off not long after, her belly full and her heart content.

Gimli walked beside him. "Dark times are these," he grumbled disdainfully, "when men will slaughter men and leave a child to tell of their brutality."

They made their way along the road slowly, for though Aragorn's leaves had helped reduce Legolas' pain, he found the dull ache still hindering his agility and strength. Gimli did not press him on the matter, and for that Legolas was glad. He could tell, though, from the Dwarf's numerous glances (which certainly the other thought were inconspicuous) that Gimli was both worried about him and immensely glad he had finally sought aid for his wounds.

Ahead was the Citadel, where they, along with the king, the queen, and the royal advisors, made their home. Gimli and Legolas were such frequent and highly esteemed visitors to Minas Tirith that each had a suite of rooms of his own in the great manor. The king's banners flew high upon the towers, whipping about in the steady wind. Many entered the Citadel: cooks, seamstresses, soldiers coming on and off duty, servants, messengers… it was a busy place, and tonight was no exception. Slowly they made their way along the last gate, heading towards the entrance. Along the road some ways further were the barracks of the Guard of the Tower of Gondor. These were the men charged with but one mission: to protect the king's manor. They were not permitted to ever leave the Citadel unguarded, and their duty was unending. They did not lapse in their defense. Though Gondor's military was large and powerful, they alone bore the White Tree upon their breasts. Revered among many, the men of Guard were the most elite soldiers, the most talented of warriors, trained to, above all, lay down their lives for their king.

The Guard was changing. The soldiers lining the gate were stiffly marching from their posts. If they were weary of the day's duties, it did not show in their proud, powerful gaits. A new set of men appeared from the crowd, stepping around the Elf and Dwarf with calm faces. Yet their eyes were alive, proud of their stature and importance.

There was a shift in the crowd, and suddenly Legolas was knocked to the side. Were this a normal day, the Elf would had retained his balance. As it was, his weakened side and exhaustion inhibited his normal poise, and he nearly tripped. Grasping tightly to Fethra, he stumbled the side. Gimli was quick to steady him, and the Dwarf sent a vicious glare at the clumsy oaf who had rammed into them.

Legolas regained himself quickly. It was no clumsy oaf.

Black, soulless eyes delved deeply into his own.

He was back there, suddenly, crushed under the weight of the Easterling that had attacked him, staring up in shock at those depthless, lifeless orbs. He was lost in their swirling abyss, lost as he hopelessly searched for a spirit, for emotion.

The man grasped his arm in apology and offered a sad smile. "Begging your pardon, my Lord. I am sorry!" he said, his face a picture of genuine sincerity. Legolas swallowed the knot in his throat and nodded.

A breath later he rushed away, pushing towards the gate. It was then that the Elf noticed his attire. Black plate mail adorned his figure, tightly encasing his body. Across his chest had been the White Tree, brazen in its proclamation of who he was and to what he belonged. The Guard disappeared in the humming throng of activity.

For a long moment the prince stood, trying to shake a strange feeling. He stared into the mess of people, desperately seeking the man again. But, as sharp and keen as his eyes were, he could not discern his black uniform from the plethora of color and motion.

"What ails you, Legolas?" Gimli asked, directing the Elf's attention to his companion once more.

The Elf spent a moment further in his inspection, but the suspicious feeling had faded. Once again his exhausted and overactive imagination had gotten the better of his common sense. "Nothing, Gimli," softly responded he, abandoning his search.

Gimli appeared doubtful a moment, but then he accepted his comrade's answer, for he broached the matter no longer. Legolas resettled Fethra a bit. The jostling had thankfully not wakened her. "Well, then, let us be off," Gimli said. "My stomach requires my attention. I hope the cooks are still at work. I do believe a frosty mug of ale would be a fitting end to such a day…"

* * *

They took a short detour to settle Fethra's sleeping form under the blankets in her room. The queen, always mindful of others, had set aside a small place for the little girl inside Legolas' suite that was adjacent to his own room. After assuring himself that she was comfortable, Legolas had allowed his Dwarven companion to lead him to the kitchens. Much to Gimli's exultation, the cooks had not yet retired for the evening. The head cook was a large, talented woman with many years experience. Her trade was delicious; even Legolas had to admit as such, though he, like most Elves, held no such great love for eating as mortals did. She added such spice and flare to the simplest of dishes so that each bite was a savory treat. Throughout the Citadel she was much loved and appreciated, for, thanks to her hands and heart, few places in Middle Earth offered such unique and delectable meals.

Even so, Legolas could not find his appetite. He picked about his dinner, eating little though the stew smelled wonderful and the wine was sweet to his tongue. He realized with annoyance that he should have asked Aragorn for a supply of those repulsive leaves, for the pain had come back quite assertively and he had no way to remedy it. His stomach simply refused to settle, given the tight constriction of seemingly every muscle in his chest.

So he sat, listening to Gimli's conversation of the Glittering Caves and Rohan, to all the Dwarf had done since they had last met. He tried to pay his dear friend his attention, but his mind wandered to thoughts best left in the shadow. Smiling pleasantly when the situation required, laughing when Gimli joked, giving short, unemotional answers about Ithilien and Elves… He was in no mood for conversation. Tathar's death was coming back to him and weighing heavily upon his heart.

Perceptive as he was, Gimli had noticed his withdrawal from their conversation and inquired as to his preoccupation. Legolas told him about losing Tathar, and though the Dwarf had offered his ear to Legolas' sorrows, the Elf could not oblige him. He thanked Gimli for his concern and swore that he would be well. The Dwarf had again steeled him with a suspicious look, obviously doubting the validity of his claims. But Gimli conceded and their conversation had awkwardly died. It was just as well, as Gimli had finished his supper and the cooks were banishing them from their kitchen.

They parted with a silent understanding. Gimli offered again his support, and Legolas politely refused it, thankful all the same. So close had they become that feelings were shared without words. Their devotion was deep, their connection a brotherhood borne from common peril and purpose. Without any words had they parted ways, each going to his own solitude.

Lightning arced and ran through the night, streaking the clouds with violent intensity. But it was quiet. The thunder had not yet come.

He limped to his own room and stripped from his body his clothes as gingerly as he could manage. Then he settled into a bath. The hot water felt gloriously good to his tired muscles and aching wounds. He scrubbed from his skin and hair the mess of blood, dirt, and soot. How wonderful to be clean again! Nothing had ever felt so good.

He dried himself after, taking great care not to strain his tender side. He dressed in a loose tunic and breeches, taken from the store of clothes he kept here for impromptu visits. Exhausted and saddened, he then slipped into his cool bed, naturally expecting sleep to quickly come for him.

But it would not.

The Elf turned over in anger and rammed a fist into a pillow. For such a brash action he was awarded a great spasm of pain from his side that left him gasping. Something wet and warm trickled down his face as he struggled to regain his breath. He touched it curiously, and it was surprised to find tears leaking from his eyes. When was the last time he had slept? And slept normally, no less? It was the custom of his kind to slumber with eyes open. Many mortals found it disconcerting to watch an Elf dream, for the eye, though half-lidded and glazed, still seemed constantly alerted to all that occurred. Legolas realized a chilling fact that he had not until now considered. These last days, when this terrible bout of insomnia had struck him, when he  _had_  slept and awoken, he distinctly remembered opening his eyes.

_Ai, Elbereth… What is happening to me?_

Suddenly a clap of thunder shook the room, rattling glass and stone. Booming and banging, it continued for a long moment, deafening in its ferocious intensity. In its wake was a wail, the sort a frightened child made.

Legolas sat up quickly, startled by the crying, and cursed when his tender injuries again slapped him with a painful reminder of their existence. He managed to ignore it, sliding from his bed and running quickly to the door of his room. A breath later he barged into Fethra's, frightened that something terrible had happened.

Another bout lightning flashed, and his eyes quickly detected the little girl. She was little more than a lump under her quilts. The thunder followed, bellowing its rage, and she shivered and cried. "Fethra," he whispered, laying a hand on the huddled mass.

She tore the blankets off, sobbing hysterically, and grabbed at him. "Leglass! Leglass!"

He took the weeping child into his arms, holding her tightly while she sobbed into his tunic. The rage of the storm flashed again, streaking blinding light through the room, and she shivered, burying her face into his chest. "Shh, little one," he comforted, stroking her back in reassurance. "All is well."

"I had a bad dream, Leglass," she whimpered. The words came quickly, slurred with terror. "The bad men came and there was a noise. Then Momma told me to hide by the wall. She was so scared."

"It was only a dream," the Elf insisted. She peeled back from his chest to gaze up at him. "It cannot hurt you."

Tears slipped from her wide eyes. She hiccupped. "Can I sleep with you tonight, Leglass?" she asked in a wistful, frightened voice. She leaned back to look into his eyes. Hers were mired in terror and panic. "The bad men won't come if you're there."

The question took him aback a bit, but he quickly recovered. His heart ached and throbbed for her plight. How could he deny her some semblance of peace? "Of course, little one. Nothing bad will ever happen to you again. I swear."

Then he swept her into his embrace, her small form shaking and weeping. He stood, walking on silent, bare feet back to his own room. Once inside, he closed the close. The storm vented its wrath upon them, lightning constantly flashing, thunder clapping. He reached his bed and set her in it before following himself.

She clung to his side, pillowed against his uninjured shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her. He pulled up the blankets to cover them both. Glancing down at her, he was relieved to see her eyes slip shut once more, her little, pink lips extended in a sort of pouting joy.

It was quiet a moment. Then she shifted and clung tighter to him. "Love you, Leglass."

The words were so soft, barely more than a murmur, that for a moment he doubted his ears. He looked down at her in surprise, but she had sunk back into an exhausted sleep. It took a moment for the implication to truly strike him, and when it did, something inside him swelled and sang with joy. He smiled to the shadows, knowing without a doubt the jubilation, the peaceful caress upon his spirit that was her devotion. The sun warmed his heart, the sun of what could only be fatherly adoration. Some part of his mind shied away from these presumptuous ideas. He knew nothing about children, let alone how to raise one properly. This girl was a mortal. He was Elf-kind. He was not her father. He never could be.

But the spell those simple words had put upon his soul could not be undone, and, for the moment at least, he had no wish to undo it. He closed his eyes, welcoming the bond between them, welcoming her faith in him and her need of him, cherishing it. Peace came to him then, a peace borne of her love and his acceptance of it. It was enough to ward away the worries, the distractions, the sorrows and fears and forebodings. Sleep called to him, and for the first time in a great while, he was free to embrace it.


	7. A Red Sun Rises

Something was wrong.

The haze of sleep faded from Legolas' mind, and he awoke. He lay still for a long moment, wondering where he was and how he had come to be in such a place. At first memory refused to emerge from the blur of disoriented thought and unconsciousness. But his senses composed themselves, and he realized he was in his room in Minas Tirith. Familiar smells and sights struck him, his keen eyes finding the same patterns in the stone ceiling above him, his back recognizing the comfort of his bed. There was warmth beside him, and he turned his head to find Fethra nestled in the crook of his arm. The child was sound asleep, peacefully dreaming with a bit of a grin upon her full lips.

There was a great flash of light and a crack of thunder. Legolas looked to the window, watching the rivulets of rain spill down the pane as the deluge outside soaked the city. The Elf stared blankly at the sight, lulled by the rumbling thunder and the heavy patter of the rain. How long had he slept? The storm still raged, and he became certain that little time had passed. He sighed, sinking back into the soft mattress and pillows, wishing the bed and the shadows would just take him and never let him go. Why could he never find peace? What so plagued his mind? It was unnatural, grotesque and fearfully wrong… The Elf narrowed his eyes in frustrated fury. This was a great riddle, it seemed, a puzzle shrouded with dark intentions and malicious manipulations. The key to its mystery felt just beyond his reach, no matter how he twisted, turned, or considered it. Something foul was afoot. He was certain.

 _Paranoia claims you,_  reasoned his mind.  _Rest these worries; they do naught but disturb you!_  Legolas lay silently for a long time, hardly breathing, struggling to pull from his core an iota of tranquility. Stubbornly it refused to come. This foreboding was persistant, looming over him, and he could not for all the want of his vexed and tired self ignore it. He could not shake this feeling that a terrible tragedy was about to happen.  _Fool,_  his thoughts seethed.  _And now will you wander these halls, searching for ghosts, for demons to attack you from cover of shadow? I doubt there ever was a more pathetic plan._  Still, that was exactly what he intended to do. His heart would allow him no rest until he silenced this silly, nagging fear that all was not right.  _I shall laugh at this in the morning. Gimli will be greatly amused at this stupidity!_

Carefully, so as not to wake Fethra, he rose from the bed, wincing slightly at the ache in his chest. He pulled the blankets up, covering the slumbering girl, and then ran his thumb down the length of her cheek. He worried about leaving her alone, even if it were to be for only a few minutes. But this itching anxiety would not be denied, and he turned, absentmindedly placing his feet into his boots and heading silently to the door. He stopped for a moment and turned. With a frustrated breath he stepped to where he had rested his quiver and bow against the bureau. He lifted his small dagger and strapped it around his shin underneath his boot.

Stealthily he slipped outside. The long, carpeted corridor was dark aside from a few candles shedding dim yellow light in a row of sconces. It was empty, starkly so. Through the window at one end lightning raged and pulsed, casting an eerie white glow. The Elf stood still, straining acute senses, scarcely breathing. All was quiet. There was nothing amiss. And why should there be? The city was safe, and the Citadel itself was relentlessly defended by the Guard. All the denizens of Minas Tirith were slumbering peacefully, safe in a world of calm and pleasant dreams. He should have been no exception, and the urge rose up within him again to cast aside this infernal disquiet beleaguering him and sensibly return to bed.

Even more potent still was the crawling sense of imminent peril, of skulking threat. The Elf felt it as vividly and as closely as he felt the cool, damp air cling to him, as he felt the firmness of the floor under his slowly walking feet and the touch of the smooth stone wall beneath his trailing fingertips. Abandoning all doubt, he concentrated on the unease curling and coiling in the pit of his stomach. Elves were gifted with senses beyond that of normal mortal experience, and years of hunting spiders in the forests of his father's kingdom had finely attuned him to hints of danger or malevolence. As he treaded softly in the darkened hall, the feeling grew steadily larger and more pressing, leaving him increasingly certain that the peace and security this eve was little more than an illusion. This warning blaring inside him was no trick of his tired mind. Ill deeds were at work. He was certain.

On light feet, the Elf prince flew through the empty corridors. He had long learned to trust his instincts, and they screamed at him one terrible chant:  _Aragorn is in danger._

Up the stairs he vaulted, taking the wide, stone steps two at a time. At the top of the steps he stopped a moment, narrowed eyes flashing as he scanned the area. This was the private corridor that led to the bedchambers of the royal family. Few were permitted to enter this sanctum as both a matter of security and privacy. At all times, it was heavily guarded. Yet the hall way was black and painfully empty. The candles had been blown out. Lightning flashed, shedding pale illumination down the vacant passage for only the fraction of a second. Yet that was enough, and Legolas drew a sharp breath, his eyes widening in terror and panic.

A figure clad in black slipped into the king's chambers.

The Elf sprang into action, sprinting along the corridor. He made no sound, his steps light and noiseless. Black shapes littered the floor near the double doors leading into Aragorn's quarters. Legolas offered a horrified glance as his agile body thoughtlessly avoided the corpses of the men who had been assigned to guard this place. Blood covered the floor; their throats had been cut, their eyes wide open in agonized shock, their lips parted in soundless screams. This was no simple attack, that the Guard was a unit of expertly trained men. No clumsy assailant could so easily and furtively murder them. But he had no time to consider the loathsome idea further.

He silently drew to a stop outside the door and held still, concentrating with all his might on listening. At first there was nothing, only a silence so deep and unbreakable that it chilled his heart. He pondered charging inside a moment but quickly decided against such a rash action. If indeed this enemy was highly skilled in the art of assassination, he would not be a foe to be taken lightly. So he stilled his straining heart and waited, praying this demon had not anticipated the keen senses of an Elven warrior observing him. There was the soft sound of a footfall on the other side of the door. One. Then two.  _Wait._  Three and four. Five. The Elf narrowed his eyes, leaning down to draw his dagger from his boot and then tensing every muscle in his body. He grasped the doorknob. Six. Seven. Silence.

_Now!_

He twisted the knob sharply and charged inside.

The king's chambers were pitch black, but the darkness did not hinder the Elf's sharp eyes. There, mid-stride to the bed where Aragorn and Arwen lay slumbering unaware and unarmed, stood a figure shrouded in night and obscurity. Lightning violently seared the air, flashing through the large windows and spreading blinding illumination through the room. In the figure's hand was a long, gleaming knife.

This observation lasted but a breath, for the man turned, hearing the Elf's entrance. Surprisingly fast, he brought his weapon to bear, slashing at Legolas. The nimble Elf jumped back, avoiding the deadly strike and returning with a blow of his own. "Aragorn!" he bellowed, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. The attacker feinted and lunged for the bed. Legolas was quick to grab the assailant's arm and yank him back. In Sindarin, he shouted, "Aragorn, you are in danger!"

He could not stop to see whether or not his call had roused his sleeping friend, for the assassin turned on him, desperate to free himself and complete his kill. Soundlessly the figure kicked at him, but Legolas was too fast, ducking to avoid the attack. The wicked, glinting knife sliced the air, aimed for the archer's chest. Legolas' bright, blue eyes were calm as he smacked his dagger against the careening knife, tracing its path easily. The enemy faltered a moment, apparently surprised by Legolas' abrupt action, and the Elf took that brief second of weakness to his advantage. His fingers wrapped around the other's wrist, his grip impossibly strong, and he twisted the arm. The piercing shriek of metal scraping on metal filled the room as the two blades came free, and the Elf yanked the assailant around, twisting his arm behind his back. The shrouded figure was strong and fleet, through, twisting about to attempt to ram his fist into Legolas' jaw. The Elf stepped back, his side stiffly and painfully protesting, frustrated as he was forced to release his restraining grasp to avoid the punch.

Dauntlessly, the attacker pursued his quarry. He scrambled to the bed. Arwen released a startled cry; the attacker brandished his knife against her, stabbing towards the queen with a brutal speed. Furious, Legolas grabbed him and pulled him from the bed, reaching for the blade. They struggled a moment, the Elf exerting all his strength to confine the murderer. This monster would not be stopped!

Finally Legolas' superior power and endurance triumphed. Thunder clapped, and lightning blasted the blackness. The attacker fell to the floor with a grunt, the Elf tackling him. He curled his fingers tightly about the assailant's throat, squeezing just enough to hinder his breathing. Legolas grabbed his flailing wrist once more and slammed it down into the floor viciously twice. The second blow was painful enough to cause the other to drop the knife. It clattered harmlessly away. The attacker wriggled and bucked beneath him. The Elf lodged the deadly edge of his dagger under the other's chin. The assassin slowed his struggles quickly enough.

The tip of a long, silver sword came to rest at the assailant's brow. Legolas looked up, pressing his weight down upon the still form beneath him to keep him immobile.

Aragorn's face was a picture of startled wrath. Andúril wavered not as the king held it over the assassin. Rage flashed in his eyes as light washed the room. "Who has sent you?" hissed the king. In the bright bursts of light Legolas saw the figure was masked in black, and only his eyes were visible. The Elf's eyes widened in surprise and dismay. Black eyes. Black, soulless eyes. "Speak, fiend, and I might ease your suffering!" Aragorn snapped.

It was silent. Thunder grumbled and rumbled, expressing its angry opinion of the situation. The attacker then closed his eyes as if to express his submission. Legolas slowly moved his dagger from the soft flesh of the other's throat. The Elf glanced up at his friend for a moment, loosening his grip just a bit.

The assailant's eyes snapped open, and he wildly shoved the alarmed Elf from him. Legolas' head smacked into the post of the bed, momentarily dazing him. A breath passed before the Elf regained himself. And when he did, he was not fast enough to stop the attacker from taking a life.

The storm raged. Thunder cracked and the room shook.

The terrible squish of steel slicing deeply into tender, vital flesh resounded. A thick splatter of blood dripped. Following was a whisper of pained words, a fleeting plea for mercy. Then the red knife fell to the floor. Soon after came the attacker's body, his throat cut by his own hand.

A long moment passed in which no one moved. The three friends had not the strength to speak, each staring in shock at the unmoving form and the growing puddle of glistening crimson spreading across the blue rug. A thousand answerless questions dashed through their minds. How had such a thing happened? Who had so cowardly attempted to murder the king in his sleep?  _Why?_

Legolas stood slowly, his injuries suddenly spreading dull hurt over his body. Arwen crept behind Aragorn, touching her husband's arm. Her beautiful face was whiter than normal, her deep blue eyes glistening with fear and confusion. The great mass of her silky, brown tresses was mussed with sleep. Legolas imagined that any other might have been left stricken by such an attack. But not Arwen. Never Arwen. She was too strong, too agelessly wise and calm. Her stature was tall, her spirit pure and shining, her eyes telling of her compassion and timeless vigor. She was the daughter of a powerful Elf lord, of a mighty creature in thought and war, and every movement, every glance, showed that pride and dignity.

Aragorn returned his blade to his sheath. His eyes flicked to his lover, seeking her assurance that she was well. However, Arwen's inquisitive gaze was centered on their dead foe. Aragorn released a long breath, reaching to an ornately carved oaken nightstand for a candle. The king fumbled about, seeking to light it. Arwen's eyes sought Legolas'. "Are you well?" she whispered to him.

The Elf prince sighed softly. He slid his dagger back into his boot. "Aye."

Soft, golden illumination struck the area, shedding a constant, warm light to ward away the lingering terror of the shadows. The candle Aragorn gave to Arwen before kneeling beside his friend. "How could he reach this place?" the king muttered, anger taut in his tone.

With the aid of king, Legolas rolled the dead assailant to his back. "He slew the Guards stationed in the hall. All of them he killed, and in doing so made no sound to betray his existence." explained the Elf sadly and quietly. Aragorn's breath hitched in his throat most likely in fury and shock. The Elf glanced to his friend, watching the questions swirl in the king's eyes. "Sleep would not come to me this eve. A premonition of evil disturbed me, and I thought to seek out its truth."

Aragorn grasped Legolas' shoulder, a weary smile gracing his bearded face. He said nothing, but the Elf understood nonetheless. The words were unneeded, so deep was their brotherly bond. The king radiated relief and gratitude. Had Legolas not believed his fears, blood would have been spilt upon their bed. The King and Queen of Gondor would have been assassinated in their sleep. It seemed like some sort of perverted nightmare, a terrible future that had, by some stroke of good fortune, been prevented. Legolas thought he should have felt proud, or at least joyful that he had been instrumental in saving the life of his dearest friends. Instead he only knew anger and uncertainty.

He grasped the assassin's black mask, curiosity and hatred driving him in his efforts to unearth this heinous and craven plot. Pulling it back, he revealed a man's face. It was rather unremarkable in features, the skin perhaps a bit darker than normal for a citizen of Gondor. Opened eyes stared blankly at those who knelt over him. The bland countenance was the sort an ordinary person might pass in a crowd and then easily forget.

Legolas was no ordinary person, however. The Elf's gaze narrowed viciously. "I know this man," he hissed. His fair face grew tight with an expression of betrayed faith. "I saw him today, just beyond the Citadel. He sported the garb of the Royal Guard, Aragorn."

Aragorn's mouth became a thin, tight line as he glanced from the dead man and his friend. "You mean to say this man infiltrated the Guard by posing as a soldier, slipped inside the Citadel, murdered the watch, and then attempted to…" He trailed off. Though he was a veteran of many bloody battles, it was obvious this attack had left him somewhat shaken. Legolas nodded. The implication was an appalling one. Minas Tirith was not infallible. The Guard had been infiltrated, its protection violated. The king was vulnerable.

Legolas shook his head, lowering his gaze. Blood spread across the floor, seeping into cloth and stone. The Elf gently pulled the man's eyelids shut, hiding the malicious intent, sparing them from the lifeless, glazed glare. Black. Soulless. There was no doubt in his mind about who was responsible for this crime.

_Easterlings._

* * *

For many there would be no more sleep that night. A call went up around the White City to raise the alarm and elevate the defenses. Though the rain was teeming and the winds fierce, the guards were quick to react to the warning. Positions were fortified with extra men, patrols augmented by additional soldiers who would lend their eyes in scouring the shadows for signs of invasion. The Gateway was reinforced and scouts were sent abroad to search the surrounding fields and groves for signs of enemy attack. It was the type of anxious, excited panic for which these fighters trained. Despite the storm's hectic and messy pounding, each knew his role, his duty to his kingdom.

Word spread quickly through the Citadel of the assault. Every candle in the great manor was lit. Maids and servants banded together, standing in corners, whispering and wondering in fear as they watched soldiers rush by them. The hunt for possible intruders in the building was rapid and scrupulous; every closet was opened and its contents exposed, every room checked, every storage area ransacked. The defense of the king's home, once thought to be flawlessly impervious, had been compromised. The thought was chilling. Now no chances would be taken and all unnecessary risks were avoided.

A great mass of men had gathered in the halls leading to the king's chambers. Many wore the black uniforms of the Guard, some glistening wetly with rain. In the narrow corridor the watch had grown dramatically, the number of soldiers on duty multiplying nearly three-fold. This they had done without order. They were silent now, but upon their hardened faces was a tale of shame and fury. Their comrades had been slain, killed in a depraved and base fashion. Even worse was the undeniable fact that they had failed in their one solemn vow: to protect their liege at all costs. It was clear from the determination etched into the rough lines of their faces that they would not again permit such an atrocity. Steadfast and passionate in their renewed promise, they allowed none passage to the king, save his most trusted advisers.

Inside the king's room the closest of Aragorn's friends had gathered. Almost immediately after the attack Aragorn had summoned Beregond, and the Captain of the White Guard arrived immediately. At seeing the body of the black-clad assassin lying upon the floor, all remnants of sleep had disappeared from the man's face. Following him was Gimli, the Dwarf grumbling disdainfully about being parted from a good dream. Yet these complaints he silenced as well when he realized what had happened.

Beregond stepped over the corpse and then dropped to his knees beside it. He knelt there a moment, his eyes quickly analyzing the scene. He tightened his jaw as he carefully lifted the bloody dagger. A look of fury passed over his face. "This is undeniably of Mordor." Legolas had thought as much. The back was wickedly curved and finely tempered, but it had subtle flaws that distinguished it from Elven or Dwarven origin. The hilt was dark and long, and it ended in a bulbous mass that strangely weighted the weapon. No smith of Gondor would have crafted such a thing, the design too foreign and the materials too unusual.

Beregond dropped the knife in disgust and wiped his hands on his breeches as he stood. "What has happened here, my King?" His voice was soft, his face shocked and his eyes burning in ire.

Aragorn angrily relayed the tale, both Beregond and Gimli paying rapt and horrified attention. When the king finished, no one spoke for a long while. It seemed far too unreal, too unbelievable to be true. Yet the evidence was painfully clear, and for all the want of their hearts, they could not deny it. Blood had been spilt this night, and it had washed away all sense of peace, of security. Though no less violent, this one death had suddenly become more paramount to their situation than all of the deaths in Cair Andros. It indicated beyond a doubt that there were indeed enemies that sought Gondor's destruction, and the nation could not be so callous as to disregard the inevitable connection between this failed assassination and the slaughter of one of its outposts.

Thunder mumbled, pushing against the stone walls of the room, rubbing against bleeding hearts.  _War is coming,_  it chanted. _War is coming._

Gimli shook his head, his eyes dark and furious. "I should have seen this," grumbled the Dwarf. He could not stop staring at the man's face. "We walked upon that street. He was right there, and I had a chance to stop him! Yet I was blind and did nothing." The stout warrior looked up, the great mass of his frazzled red hair shifting with the motion. "My lapse in focus has nearly cost you dearly, Aragorn, and I am infuriated by that!"

"Peace, friend Gimli," responded Aragorn to the Dwarf's pained words. He clasped the other on his shoulder. "You could not have known his intentions."

"Bah," Gimli countered, folding his arms about his broad chest, "that is hardly an excuse. Obviously the Elf knew." It was not a comment borne from jealousy or spite but rather from frustration and disgust at his own failings.

Beregond rubbed his brow tiredly. "I find it inconceivable that this worm could wriggle his way into our must trusted forces so easily!" he shouted in shameful fury. "And if they could manage that, how many more traitors and spies are littered about us, hidden under a veil of familiarity?"

None of them could offer an answer. The idea sparked within each a feeling of paranoid fear, of suspicion and haunting sorrow. So unexpected was this blow that it had left all of Minas Tirith reeling.

Yet even the most cunning of murderers left a trail.

"Sir!" came a call from the hallway. Beregond turned, casting his eyes upon a group of soldiers approaching. There were three of them, each a member of the Guard, and they pushed through to the door. One of the men spoke, his face and clothes dripping with rain, wrath apparent of his young face. "We have found something the King should see immediately."

"Then come forth, man, and bear it to him."

The White Tree heaved up and down on the man's breast as he stepped inside, dripping a grand puddle under his feet. His sodden clothes and cloak squished and shed water as he moved. He dropped to one knee before the king and bowed his head, raising his hands.

Silence.

Legolas silently released a long breath, shaking his head numbly at the sight. There could be no refutation now, no denial, no hope for some other truth.

Aragorn's face was vengeful and dark as he grasped the red banner from the man's outstretched palms. He held the flag in his open hands, the crimson silk spilling through his fingers. The gold serpent slithered along its length as though seeking to escape the prison of the cloth and sting those who had caught it. Aragorn's stare was blank, and then for the fraction of a second Legolas spied fear and hurt flash across his dear friend's eyes. Then the king's fingers curled about the standard so tightly that his knuckles were white, and his hands slightly shook as he strangled the snake. "Where did you find this?" he asked, his voice little more than a throaty whisper. Water dripped loudly to the floor as it was wrung from the cloth.

The man did not look up, but his shoulders quivered. The movement was barely perceptible. "It was hung, my Liege, upon the seventh gate where your standards once flew. There were nine others like it."

Legolas winced. He clenched a fist.  _Ten banners. That is enough to replace every flag of Gondor upon that wall!_  The soldier went on his horrid tale. "All of the gate Guards were slain! All of them!"

"Preposterous!" roared Gimli. Ire burned in his dark eyes. "No one man could kill so many skilled soldiers unaided! This demon had help, and we must ferret out his compatriots before they escape or strike again!"

Aragorn's glare was fiery as he leveled it upon the Guard at his feet. "Search everywhere in the barracks. Everywhere, do you hear? Account for every uniform, for every sword, for every horse! I want them found and brought before me! Lock down this city; none shall enter or leave it until this threat is eradicated!"

Such fierce orders were unusual for the king, but Aragorn's harsh and vehement tone allowed no question. Moreover, the soldiers were eager to oblige their lord and avenge their dead. "It is done, my King!" He stood and saluted Aragorn curtly before pivoting on his heel. The other soldiers followed the man's suit, and they marched quickly from the room. Shouting echoed down the hall as orders were dispatched.

Aragorn turned to Beregond. "See that Lord Faramir is guarded as well." His voice grew soft and worried. "He is the most vulnerable at the moment, and that makes him a conspicuously easy target."

The realization bothered Beregond greatly, for his face, once flushed with anger, grew ashen and upset. "I will choose the most trusted of my men," he declared, "and I will pull those from the Guard that I know are loyal to our cause. You and the queen shall have sentries about at all times."

Aragorn was visibly not pleased with the idea. Legolas knew the look well enough, for it was the same expression the ranger wore whenever he was confronted with a problem whose solution he did not favor. Aragorn's pride ran deep, and he did not like the formalities of his responsibility. He loved his people with a fierce and powerful intensity, but often he did not realize that being their leader meant protecting his own life. He preferred to confront his enemies, to face his demons himself without others to guard him. It was a torn look, one of divided hope and fear. It signified resigning to the only option. This was the same expression he had bore when Lord Elrond had made him rest after an ill-fated hunting trip, when Boromir had confronted him at the council in Rivendell, when the Fellowship was left with no choice but to enter Moria. When the Elf prince and the human king had stood side by side atop the Deeping Wall, watching the innumerable hordes of Uruk-hai march steadily towards them.

" _Your friends are with you, Aragorn."_  He remembered what he had said that night, when all was dark and there seemed little promise of victory.  _And we will always be._

The king finally nodded. "We must all be on our guard," he said slowly, quietly. These were words meant only for those present. "Some great evil is setting its will against us, and we can ill afford to lose anyone." Aragorn settled steely eyes upon Legolas and Gimli. "If our enemy is as clever as we expect, he might seek to hurt those closest to me in order to attack at me. I cannot lose either of you." The king turned to Beregond. "Perhaps a few guards can be spared for Lords Legolas an–"

The Dwarf and the Elf shared a doubtful look. "I hardly think that is necessary, Aragorn," Legolas interrupted softly. The thought annoyed him somewhat. He was no child; he could take care of himself. Long had he been a prince and a warrior, and never before had he needed a warder to watch his shadow for danger. The protective instincts inherent in leading drove Aragorn in this, the Elf knew. Still, it was unwarranted, and Legolas did not appreciate being mothered. "I highly doubt they will focus their attention upon us when there are greater targets to be had."

Arwen suddenly held Legolas' eyes. Her voice was soft, like a gentle melody, but in it he heard all her worry and concern. "It is not so, my Lord. The Elves of Ithilien are a most valuable asset to Gondor. Should the opportunity arise to strike at their leader, they will surely take it." A moment passed in which the two friends watched each other, as if truly seeing each other for the first time in quite a while. Legolas supposed that was true as he had been away from Minas Tirith for numerous weeks, but even before that, they were often called to disparate tasks and duties and rarely found the time to visit with each other. Arwen's eyes had a certain quality to them; she could delve deeply into a soul and seek out the most private of fears and secrets without ever once posing a threat or appearing the intruder. It was a gift, given to her through common blood with the Lady Galadriel, who had also possessed such a power. Long had Legolas been Arwen's confidant, and he knew her heart as well as she did his. There was naught he could hide from her. He knew she sensed his ill spirit, his nights spent twisting sleeplessly in bed, his worries and fears and grief. He felt her concern over him. So well did they know one another that she could perceive his anguish as clearly as though it were her own.

But she would never do him the injustice of speaking openly of such a private matter.

Gimli continued then, interrupting Legolas' thoughts. "Aragorn, my friend, if I may be so bold, I believe that between the two of us, we can protect ourselves. Though the Elf can be a nuisance and a want-wit in arguments, I think him to be a rather exceptional warrior, and I am, of course, no less. You need not worry about us."

Normally Legolas would have bristled at the insult. But he fixed Aragorn with a vehement stare. His face was stoic, placid. He knew his friend recognized his expressions as well. Aragorn was fettered to responsibility, to duty to his kingdom as it leader, but Legolas was not so bound. He commanded a handful of Elves and little more. He would not stand aside and lose this chance to avenge Fethra's turmoil. To avenge Tathar.  _Twisted logic,_  his mind announced.  _How ready you are to protect Aragorn, to push him into the shadows to spare his life. In doing so you will deny him the very same ugly goal you selfishly seek: retribution._  He could not silence his grieving heart, though.

Under the Elf's cool, unblinking eyes Aragorn finally relented. He sighed tiredly. "Very well," he said. In came a few soldiers seeking to remove the corpse from the floor. They crouched beside the assassin and then, grabbing his arms and legs, lifted him none too gently. They carried the heavy body from the room, revealing a pool of thick blood. "Let us speak on this more tomorrow, when Éomer returns from Emyn Arnen. I fear naught but worry and fear will come from further consideration this night. At dawn have a messenger dispatched to Dol Amroth to warn Prince Imrahil of what has occurred. Tell your man he must carry these words with the strictest caution. The matter is far too sensitive for any other than Imrahil's ears. Summon the other lords of the realm, as well." This the king quietly said to Beregond, and the other nodded at the request. They all knew that Aragorn gathering his lords and vassals implied but one thing. "Retire and seek rest."

After they were all of them silent. Words had failed them, for there was little left to say that could express their anger, their fear, their worry of what might come of this. In the emptiness the storm barked and muttered.

In disgust Aragorn dropped the banner of the Easterlings. It fell down slowly, floating languidly to the floor, and landed in the lake of blood. The fabric soaked up the liquid until the red of the cloth became indistinguishable from the red of the blood. And that serpent, that cruel, wicked beast, swam in it like a monster, its mouth open in a soundless cry. A voiceless declaration of war.

* * *

Not long after the Dwarf and the Elf parted company with the king and queen. Arwen had shared a few brief words with Legolas, assuring herself of his welfare. Her concern at once bothered and pleased him, and though he proclaimed to her that he was in good health, she saw the lie for what it was. Taking her hands in his own, he swore to her that he would be well when this nightmare was over, and that he would do all that was in his power to protect her and her husband. She had responded to such a proud declaration with a knowing smile, teasing him gently for his boyish cavalier. Still, she was genuinely heartened for his promise and, offering him a loving kiss on the cheek and heartfelt thanks, she bade him to sleep.

Gimli stalked darkly down the busy hall. "Rest," he grumbled as they reached the corridor along which their rooms were situated. "Only a fool could think such a thing possible!"

Legolas' eyes were distant, his mind racing with the night's terribly happenings. "Aragorn is no fool, Master Dwarf," he commented off-handedly. "Patience is a trait you lack, and that seems to be our only sure ally at the moment."

The short creature mumbled disdainfully, clearly vexed. Although Legolas greatly adored the gruff Dwarf, he was the first to admit that patience was a foreign thing to Gimli. He valued action and decisiveness. He abhorred waiting for a path to become clear. He was a creature of little restraint when it came to matters of combat and peril. It had been Gimli, after all, who had first tried to smash the One Ring with his mighty axe at Elrond's council. The action had been futile, as the evil of the Ring could not be so easily undone. Still, it spoke volumes of Gimli's readiness to act, no matter the danger or consequence.

It was another matter of contention between their two races. Elves, and especially Legolas who was deeply connected with nature and nature in turn with him, could for hours sit perfectly still and listen to the songs of the earth. Longevity demanded patience. Dwarves had not such poise and self-discipline, but they were quick thinkers and grasped matters for their simple worth easily. The two had shared many debates in the past over this issue.

Silently they continued to their rooms. Legolas' was first, and they drew to a halt at his door. The once dark corridor was now bright, the candles burning evenly from every sconce. Gimli looked to the window blankly, and Legolas watched him and waited expectantly. "Perhaps we ought spend the night in each other's company," the Dwarf finally mumbled. His eyes were averted sheepishly.

Legolas smiled. He had thought the same, for it seemed no one was safe this evening. Even so, he could not pass up this perfect opportunity for jeering his friend. "Afraid?"

The Dwarf needled him with a stony glare. "Of course not!" he proudly huffed, shaking his head angrily at his companion. "I merely suggest that you care as well for Fethra, and my eyes can only help you in guarding your charge."

The archer raised an eyebrow at Gimli's words. "A fair idea, Master Dwarf. After you, then." Legolas opened the door and allowed Gimli's entrance. He could not help but glance around the hall for hazardous signs or evidence of threat. There was nothing.  _Your mind escapes you._ Then he slipped inside, closing the door softly behind him and locking it.

Inside, lightning weakly bathed the room. The storm was beginning to pass, the thunder quieter and less insistent in its fury. The splatter of rain blowing against the window was quiet and peaceful. Gimli stood at the foot of the large bed as his Elven comrade stepped around him to check on Fethra. Much to Legolas' relief, she slept still. Fondly he tucked the quilt about her tiny body. His hands seemed so long and great compared to her delicate frame.

Then he turned to his friend. Gimli was observing him with a bemused expression. "I never thought you such a father, Elf," he said in as soft a whisper a Dwarf could manage. "You hardly look older than a child yourself." He chuckled.

"You amuse yourself far too easily," said Legolas. By the large window in the room were two great, cushioned maroon chairs. This room had been gifted to the Elf for this reason, as the sizeable open area was less constrictive to a creature that thrived upon fresh air, stars, and trees. Legolas cared little for closed spaces and stones, but he had learned to tolerate the claustrophobic aspects of living in such locales. His father's manor, which was buried deep in a mountainous cave, was not so different, and he had long grown accostumed to that.

Tiredly he sank into one of the chairs, his normal mask of grace and indifference falling away before his dear friend. Gimli sat as well, though the furniture was a bit too large from him. The Elf regarded him through half-lidded eyes. "Ai," he moaned softly, "I am tired, Gimli. So very tired."

He could feel the Dwarf's eyes upon him, analyzing him, gauging the vitality of his body and spirit. "Sleep then, you crazy Elf. You ask too much of yourself. You are not perfect, and nobody expects you to be."

"You sound too much like my father, Gimli." His open broaching of this subject surprised them both, but he was too weary to care much for decorum at the moment. "He expected nothing of me, and in a way, I think that has driven me more than any aspiration anyone else has ever had for me."

Gimli grunted his agreement. Few times in the past, before King Thranduil had sailed to the Undying Lands, they had spoken of the Elf prince's troubled relationship with his father. Gimli knew it was a great source of pain and sadness for his friend. "Legolas," he began. The Elf cracked open an eye. Gimli rarely addressed him by his given name, and when he did, what he was about to say was important and heartfelt. This time was no exception. "Your father is not here. He does not bear upon your decisions. Do not press yourself so. Immortality I suppose is a great gift, but it is also a hefty curse. I see the weight of time in your eyes now and then, and though I have heard you are young for your kind, you seemed to have aged many years in the short period I have known you."

Legolas looked outside, watching the water stream down the clear pane of the window. Endless was its wash. For each drop that fell, another was there to take its place. Like minutes of time. Like waves of the sea. "Nothing lasts forever, Gimli. Even Elves."

The comment did not sit well with the Dwarf. "Do not speak of it! The end may be inevitable, for Aragorn and Lady Arwen, for me, for you… but not so of our friendship. We have much ahead of us. Nothing can make that promise disappear. Nothing can sever the ties between us save death, and though she is a wicked and wily creature, she will not outsmart us both."

The words were meant to console, but they only broke through the dam Legolas had erected around his pain. Before he could even think to stifle them, hot tears broke from his eyes. "Ai, Gimli! Gimli!" he gasped. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands. Long blond locks fell down his frame, quivering as his shoulders shook. "I failed Tathar so terribly. For millennia he fought under my father's command. My father so loved him for his wisdom and talent, and he returned that love in loyalty and friendship! And in my defense he died…  _My_  defense!" He wept piteously, openly for the first time in a great many years. "There was a place for him in Valinor. Yet he stayed because  _I_  asked him to stay. And now… now he is dead! This pain is so great!"

Gimli said nothing, simply allowing Legolas to cry. The Dwarf did not try to assuage his guilt or rationalize his actions. Words were inappropriate, unneeded and artificial. The unsoiled quiet dragged onward, filled with naught but the soft patter of the rain and the gentle sobbing of the Elf. Rain and tears fell and fell, letting loose pent up anguish and grief.

Finally Legolas collected himself. He swallowed a sob, his breath quaking. He wiped the wetness from his cheeks. Then he looked up.

Gimli only offered him a friendly grin. The Dwarf reached across the small space between them and grasped Legolas' knee. The grip was firm and strong. The silence persisted a bit longer. Then the Elf flushed with absolute embarrassment, ashamed he had so blatantly and without regard broken apart before his friend. Elves were not so weak, so flustered! He gritted his teeth and averted his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak some excuse for his behavior.

"Do not apologize, Elf." Legolas looked to Gimli. The Dwarf nodded, his small, dark eyes knowing. "You needed that, and do not even try to tell me otherwise. I know you too well for such a shallow remark. Do not insult us both with nonsense."

In spite of all his turmoil, Legolas smiled. As much as he was loathed to admit it, Gimli was right. He  _had_  needed that, and it had felt strangely wonderful to cry, to vent his pain. He laid his hand over Gimli's and squeezed it. "Thank you, Gimli."

"Indeed."

They sat in a companionable quiet for a bit, both content to watch the rain. A few meager flashes of lightning still sparked the sky every so often, but they were weak and distant. Thoughts swirled and swirled in a maelstrom of endless concern and contemplation. Legolas finally whispered, "I suppose war will soon be upon us."

Gimli grunted. "Aye." They were both battle-hardened soldiers. They knew the signs of an attack plainly enough. There was no simple matter. Maybe it had once been, but now it could never be.

The Elf sighed tiredly. "Peace is far too tenuous a thing."

"Aye."

He darted a glance at Gimli from the corner of his eyes. The Dwarf was calm, his eyes clouded and peaceful. Legolas smiled weakly.  _I am glad you came here this eve. I am glad you know my heart._  But he did not voice these thoughts. He did not need to.

They spoke no more after that. Legolas watched the storm release its grasp upon Minas Tirith and wondered at the new tempest approaching. For a long while he sat, thinking of everything and nothing. Every so often he would glance to Gimli. The Dwarf had fallen asleep some time ago, his chin pressed to his chest, snoring loudly. Legolas chuckled softly. This creature had the most abominable snore. It seemed to shake the very room.

Time passed slowly. The Elf sank into his thoughts, finding himself oddly detached from his emotions. The pain did not touch him. The grief was gone. Even the aches of his body did not pierce his apathy. For hours did he stare outside. This vantage was high above the city, and he could see many small buildings and trees and roads. He imagined the city in the throes of war. Would such a nightmare come to pass? Black grew to gray, and slowly light began to creep over Minas Tirith. Would this city survive another conflict so bitter and violent? Would Mordor reach from the shadows again to strangle the Free Peoples of Middle Earth?

A red sun rose, peeking through the rain clouds, ending an endless bout of darkness. Only then did Legolas realize another night had passed and another dawn had come.

He had not slept.


	8. Seeking Answers

The morning proved to be a busy one. All the city awoke with the dawn, and the news of the night's assassination attempt spread like wildfire. On every street scuttlebutt passed from butcher to smith to cobbler, the merchants sharing gossip with their daily customers, women chatting quickly of what they had heard and from whom they had heard it. The muted cacophony of sound pulsed and buzzed as though the houses and shops themselves vibrated. The hum throbbed with confusion, with fear and anger. Fact meshed with speculation, speculation mixed with rumor, and rumor quickly became an itching sense of panic. For hundreds of years had the Citadel remained the ultimate symbol of security; no enemy had ever breached the seventh gate. It seemed utterly preposterous and impossible that somehow an assassin had slipped inside the fortress and nearly murdered their king and queen. The people did not understand, and their frustrated and frightened ignorance left them riled and uneasy. The search for answers from friends and strangers alike became a hungry and desperate quest for truth amidst uncertainty.

Legolas held tight to Fethra's hand. The streets were quite crowded this morning, teeming with peddlers pushing their wares and anxious people rushing about their chores. They were tense as they struggled to direct their thoughts from this mysterious threat to mundane matters. His sharp hearing caught snippets of conversations as they walked along the congested road.

"I heard it was one man, and that he killed nearly half the Royal Guard!"

"Nay, it was said there were two at least, and their blades were laced with Morgul poisons…"

"For the King my heart does cry! How could this have happened?"

"All of Minas Tirith is closed! Do you suppose the assassin remains in the city?"

"Bloody tyrant. I had business in Lossarnach this morn, but there's no leaving."

"My brother works at the stables and he swore he saw a man atop the seventh gate last night in the rain, standing very still, as though waiting…"

"The Elf Lord saved the King. How could he have known?"

"Those Elves are dangerous folk, I tell you. They see far too much. Once a tale came to me of an Elf who could sweep your senses from you with only a glance. He could take your mind. Foul creatures!"

"The King would do right to break the old alliances. Never trust an Elf!"

Legolas gritted his teeth in anger. Those last racist comments had come from a group of large, burly men standing outside one of the city's numerous smiths. Great puffs of smoke ringed their heads as they spewed their prejudices in loud tones. Legolas bristled, narrowing his eyes as a particularly scathing comment reached his ears.  _Never mind all that Elves have done for men. Never mind the Last Alliance that broke the chains of Mordor that had encased your fair city! Never mind the blood of Elf-kind spilt at Helm's Deep and Pelennor Fields so that men might be forgiven for their love of power, for their love of the Ring! Never mind any of that!_

The men laughed at some crude joke, but they grew stiffly quiet as Legolas passed. The Elf glared at them, his icy eyes dangerous. They did not meet his gaze, their faces blushing red with embarrassed rage. But the prince stalked by them silently, finding no words could express his anger.

"Let it go, lad," said Gimli. His stout friend was at his other side, regarding him with placid eyes. Legolas was mildly surprised to find Gimli so peaceful about the situation. Normally it was the Dwarf whose temper flared in the face of insult or injustice, and typically at such times it was the Elf whose calm prevented an undesirable episode. Yet Gimli's face was lax as he gently grasped at Legolas' arm. "They are hardly worth the thought."

Legolas' blue eyes blazed brightly. "They dishonor their king," he said lowly and evenly, "and their queen. They dishonor Gondor's past."

"And they are ignorant whelps," surmised Gimli. The Dwarf shook his head as he regarded his friend. "To expect complete approval even in times of peace is foolhardy and naïve."

"That is hardly consolation."

Gimli grunted. "The truth rarely is."

They continued on, making their way slowly towards the Houses of Healing. The morning was quickly disappearing, and it seemed to Legolas that far more time had passed than a few simple hours. Already had Arwen had paid them a visit shortly before the morning's meal. The queen had been quite entranced by Fethra, offering her great smiles and gentle hugs. Fethra had squealed in delight at the queen's promises of songs and dolls. Without Legolas even asking, Arwen knew of his concerns, and she sent her personal seamstresses to acquire patterns and cloth for new clothes for the child. The enchanting Evenstar had within minutes formed a fast and loving relationship with Fethra. Legolas had really expected no less.

They had joined Aragorn for a private breakfast. As Legolas thought of it now, "privacy" was a term now open to many interpretations. Guards had stood upon the sunlit terrace, their eyes ever watchful of the buildings below. At the doors as well they were stationed. The king's life had become a matter of extreme importance and national security, and he was not to be left undefended at any time. Legolas watched the emotions play across Aragorn's face as they had taken their meal. He was obviously none too pleased with the idea, frustration and anger forming a thin line of his lips, his eyes glancing every so often to his newfound retinue of guards. He made a good enough attempt to hide his discontent from the others, but Legolas knew him too well and saw these signs clearly enough. Aragorn did not appreciate being treated like a caged animal, and the Elf did not envy him his position.

Fethra had sat, excitedly eating fruit and bread, kicking at Gimli from under the table. Though no one would speak of the attack the night before in front of the sweet child, it was foremost on each mind. It was a needling worry, a pain that was winding tight the spirit. They talked of trivial things to distract weary minds from pressing concerns. Even with the daylight streaming through the open terrace, the morning had been dark with dread. Even with Fethra's laughter at Gimli's antics, with Aragorn's knowing smiles and Arwen's gentle, kind words, the time had been tainted with unspoken fear. Legolas had sat, speaking little, eating even less. He listened numbly as his dearest friends spoke of some past tale and felt terribly afraid that this quiet moment might be the last for a great long while. He knew it deep inside, and it ached in his bones.

They were nearly at the Houses of Healing. Word had quickly come to the Citadel that the Steward had regained wakefulness this morn, and that he was surprisingly lucid. It had been a most welcome interruption to their breakfast. However, under the orders of the king's advisers, Aragorn was not permitted to leave the Citadel until it was certain that no further threat existed within in Minas Tirith. The king's face had flushed angrily at the restriction, and only Arwen's calming voice and restraining hand had prevented Aragorn from boxing the page's ears. Legolas did not know if he particularly agreed with the advisers. Certainly the king needed protection. Should Aragorn fall, Gondor would be left without an heir. The bloodline of the House of Elendil would disappear from all existence. Yet the action was perhaps a bit rash, and Aragorn was certainly an experienced and worthy fighter. He was wise and responsible and surely no simpleton when it came to matters of caution.

In either case, the Elf, the Dwarf, and the child had rushed to the streets to confirm Faramir's recovery. And now they stood, for the gate to the courtyard into the House of Healing was blocked by a big crowd of people, and there was no path through the mess.

Confusion creased Legolas' brow. There was shouting and crying. Gimli huffed, straining his form to stand as tall as he could. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Patience, Gimli," Legolas said softly. The Elf narrowed his eyes and glanced about the wild crowd. Women were sobbing, turning their heads and wailing piteously. Men were ashen-faced, their eyes distant and frightened. The air had grown still, tight, and hot. Fear flooded through Legolas.

_Faramir._

Could there have been an attempt on his life? Could he have…

There was a tugging at his hand. Fethra shook her head insistently, pulling at his fingers. "Can't see, Leglass!" she whined, looking up at him with imploring green eyes.

Not even thinking, he crouched and pulled her into his arms. She giggled joyously, but he hardly heard her so sweeping was this sudden panic. "Come on, Gimli!" he yelled. He did not even wait to see if his companion heeded his command, his long legs carrying him quickly and gracefully through the mob. Lithely he stepped around man and woman, dodging quick turns and sudden actions, and finally he traversed the distance into the House of Healing.

It was oddly hot and dark inside, and the air smelled sweet with the tang of blood. Lady Ioreth stopped, standing still in her rushed movements momentarily as Legolas burst past the guards stationed at the door. He met the woman's large, dark eyes, searching her frantically for signs of grief, for evidence confirming his worst fears. "What has happened?" he gasped, his white lips hardly moving.

She seemed frozen, paralyzed by panic and sorrow. An endless moment dragged by them, filled with Legolas' thundering heart and waning hopes. Then she whispered, "You had better hurry, my Lord." She turned, her skirts flying with a swish.

He followed her down the hallway, shushing Fethra as she squirmed in his embrace. Door after door he passed until they entered one of the large rooms. It was equipped with many beds, ideally suited to care for the multitudes of wounded battles often produced.

Legolas' eyes widened.

Faramir looked up at his entrance and held his gaze. The gray orbs flickered with pain and grief and fury, turning shades lighter and darker as the sun wafted through the curtains covering the windows. The Steward was kneeling beside a bed, dressed in a loose tunic and his traveling breeches. Sweat lined his forehead. But his gaze was clear of fever or delirium. "Linhir has fallen."

The ranger looked back to the bed. Upon it was a man. He was so filthy with mud, soot, and dirt that his skin and hair seemed nearly black. He was dressed in a ripped and sullied uniform, the simple sort of garb that a militia soldier might sport. He was young, more a boy than a man. Gray eyes helplessly searched the ceiling.

Legolas stepped inside slowly, watching as Ioreth rushed to tend to the patient. Carefully he set Fethra to the floor, and she clung to him fearfully. There was a booming voice and the thud of short legs running. Gimli burst inside the room, his chest and beard heaving as he struggled to catch his wind. "You blasted Elf! Wait when I tell you!" But then the Dwarf hushed his angry reprimands as he, too, saw the poor soul lying upon the bed.

The Elf stepped silently, his horrified eyes never leaving the mangled body before them. He knelt beside Faramir. This young man had been beaten quite badly, tortured it seemed, for his form was a mess of bloody lacerations and grime covered bruises. His clothes were caked with drying and fresh blood and mud. The bones of his forearm protruded sickly from ashen flesh. The entire left side of his face was burned. His eye was a mass of blood and molten flesh. All that escaped him was a wheezing breath that barely even rattled from his broken chest.

Legolas had never seen such deliberate brutality, and he had lived through and participated in more than his fair share of battles and wars. The Elf peered closely, holding his breath. He gently peeled away the blackened tunic. He winced. Upon the man's sternum, he had been branded. The burnt skin was horridly enflamed and washed in blood, but the symbol was terrifyingly clear.

The serpent.

Legolas closed his eyes and looked away. "Sweet Elbereth," he whispered. His heart quaked in rage and agony. The fury was immense, and for a moment he sank into it, drowning in its chilly grasp. The prince laid his hand over the hideous wound, praying somehow to erase the mark from this boy, to take from him the pain he must have suffered, to ease his passing. But he was only an Elf. He could not change the past anymore than he could see the future.

The boy suddenly grabbed his hand and pulled him close. Legolas' eyes snapped open and he found himself staring into the ruined face. The lad's good eye glinted in something he did not understand. Recognition, perhaps. Then another hand wrapped around the back of Legolas' head, pulling him down. His ear was close to the ripped and oozing lips. He could feel the heat of a dying breath against his cheek. "They know you," came a harsh whisper. "They see you…" The bloody fingers tightened in his hair. "I see you… I see… I see… I…"

The grip became slack, and the maimed hand fell limply to the bed. The young man's eye rolled back into its socket, and he choked out a final whimper. His crushing grasp on Legolas' hand weakened. His body shook once. Then he was still.

Legolas released a slow breath as he leaned back. There was crying and then the soft words of Ioreth. "Turn your eyes away, child. Master Dwarf, let her not look upon this terrible sight!"

Faramir lowered his eyes, his hands clenched into furious fists upon the bed. "Monsters," he hissed. The Steward struggled to his feet, shrugging off help. "Vile monsters!" They had rarely heard such rage in the normally calm man's voice, but Faramir was livid, his eyes glowing brightly with the heat of his anger. "How many have they slaughtered? Butchered?" raged Faramir breathlessly. "Every man, woman, and child!"

The Elf gently set the dead boy's hand across his chest. He narrowed his eyes, his mind racing with questions and worries. Something was very strange about these wounds… They were aged, some newly scabbed with the newest hints of healing skin. A great deal of the bloody gore that covered the lad was dry. "They tortured this man. These wounds are many days old," breathed the Elf. His eyes flashed venomously. He stood and cast furious eyes upon Faramir. "They did not simply raze Linhir. They must have taken captive its people."

Faramir leaned against the bedpost. "Why do such a thing?" he asked, his face sickly pale. "And why release this man? Surely his wounds were too great for him to escape! They gave him a horse and tied him to the saddle…"

Legolas shook his head darkly. "To tell us." His lips hardly moved with the words. "To gloat. To flaunt their advantage."

"Which is?" Gimli questioned, his voice uncharacteristically unsettled.

The Elf held Faramir's gaze. Legolas' normally calm face was fractured in uneasy dismay. "That they can see."

For a long while no one spoke. Even Fethra, who could not have understood the meaning of these traumatic happenings, was quiet in Ioreth's arms. Legolas stood perfectly still, his quick and acute mind digesting all that had occurred and trying desperately to make some sense of it. There was one terribly obvious conclusion. As implausible as it had once seemed and as disturbing as it now was, it was frightfully undeniable. No matter how else he considered the facts, he was left with but one conclusion.  _Spies._

Faramir had clearly come to the same supposition, for his tired eyes sought his friend's for assurance. "They see all," whispered Legolas, "and we are blind."

The words hurt, stabbing into their sense of security, of control, of worth. Faramir swallowed uncomfortably and closed his eyes. He sank onto the edge of the bed. Gimli jumped forward to steady him. "Easy, Master Ranger, you are weak yet!"

"Go, Legolas," Faramir gasped. He squinted, struggling to catch his breath, leaning forward and bracing his arms on his knees as he bowed his head. "Go and speak to Aragorn quickly."

The Elf knelt before Faramir. "We must be discrete, Faramir." Legolas dropped his tone to a hushed whisper, grabbing his friend's knee. "I doubt you have been told, but last night there was an attempt upon Aragorn's life." Faramir's eyes widened and his face grew pale. "Both he and the Queen are safe."

"Surely you do not think one of the Guard or one of his advisers would betray us…" Faramir trailed off as Legolas offered Gimli a sidelong glance. The man did not miss their exchange and surmised for himself the gravity of what had occurred while he had recovered. The young Steward seemed older and wearied. He averted his eyes in despair. "Ai… Dark are these tidings!"

"I will go and seek a private audience with him. The advisers push for constant supervision. They have already barred his exit from the Citadel for safety's sake," Legolas declared. "He will hold a council meeting tonight as soon as Éomer returns from Emyn Arnen."

"Éomer rode to my manor?" questioned Faramir, his face slightly surprised and even more worried. "Surely my wife was not summoned over this bit of injury…"

"It is no bit, Faramir. You very nearly died," Gimli reminded him. The Dwarf's face was riddled with anger and doubt. "And we can ill afford to lose anybody. Black times are coming to Gondor and her allies."

Faramir released a slow breath. "I pray that is not so, Gimli." The ranger turned and held Legolas' gaze. Neither of them spoke, but Legolas understood what Faramir meant to say in the silence. For the briefest period of time there was no danger, no immediate peril, no uncertainty, rage, or fear. The man was offering the Elf a token of gratitude both for their unyielding and newly restored friendship and for what Legolas had done for him. The pain of the memory was still a bit too near for words, but the emotion was there and strong. And with Faramir's forgiveness, Legolas felt the last of his guilt over what happened at Cair Andros fade away.

"I will take my leave then," said the Elf, offering Faramir a weak smile of thanks himself. The Steward nodded and then sadly looked to the healers as they covered the dead soldier's body and removed it from the bed.

Legolas then turned quickly, striding to Ioreth. The middle-aged woman held Fethra in her arms, and the child seemed content enough. The Elf helplessly glanced between the little girl and the woman, knowing time was short and feeling utterly wretched at leaving Fethra unattended. But Ioreth was wise and kind. "Worry not, my Lord. I shall tend her until you return."

Relieved, Legolas looked to Fethra and reached out a finger to sweep a wayward lock of red hair from the child's brow. "I will return when I am able," he swore. "Mind Lady Ioreth, little one."

Fethra nodded, thankfully content with being left with little more than a stranger. Then the Elf turned and raced back to the Citadel. Dark and treacherous were his thoughts. The king would not be pleased.

* * *

A red dawn became a red day, it seemed, and all of Minas Tirith was washed with blood. Hundreds slaughtered, so said the rumors flying about the streets, homes, and shops. Hundreds upon hundreds. Cair Andros… Linhir… Terror took hold of the people, and for all their desperate want of solace there was none to be found. The Citadel was achingly quiet. From it came no resolution of action or reassurance of hope. There were simply no answers, and with the governing body's silence came only a greater dread that indeed malice marred the future. Panic pushed its way into the normally calm hearts of the citizens. Minas Tirith had long known despair and death, but peace had been too alluring and pleasing a gift to so easily abandon again for a wartime mentality. Was this city forever doomed to unrest? Was it doomed to another long, bloody, and hopeless conflict?

Would it never find peace?

Legolas closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. The Elf released a slow breath, trying to will his tired body and mind into some semblance of attention. It had been hours since he had reported to Aragorn the substance of the soldier's demise, and, as expected, Aragorn had been quite riled at the news. In hushed tones and as far from the guards as possible, they had discussed the matter, speaking in rapid, fluid Sindarin, hoping that alone would be enough to hide what they said. Legolas had watched the emotions flash across his friend's eyes and knew they mirrored his own, sharing with him the pain, the fury, and the cursed inevitability of the situation. They could come to no conclusions. It made so little sense. If the Easterlings sought war, why expend such energy as to hold an entire town prisoner for numerous days before mindlessly executing its entire population? Why release one man? That poor soul must have been purposely deposited in close proximity to Minas Tirith, else he would have naturally fled to the closer city of Dol Amroth. It was chilling, these snippets of evidence, and they so poorly meshed to form any sort of cohesive picture. Indeed the man had been brutalized and mangled for days, and that certainly meant their enemy had taken Linhir days before razing Cair Andros. There was simply no way for one army to be in two distant locations within that same period of time, at least not without Gondor's knowledge. This, of course, led to a most disturbing question: how large was their opponent's force? Linhir was no weakling township; as one of Dol Amroth's main principalities, it was well equipped with militia and supplies. It was greatly populated. How many men did their enemy boast? Two of Gondor's territories had been so swiftly and silently terrorized and crushed…

And this was perhaps most unnerving of all. If indeed the Easterlings had taken Linhir and held that bustling and prosperous township captive for days, they had done so without the slightest indication of their act. Imrahil's silence was troubling, for surely he would have sent word of an attack. How could such a thing be? It seemed preposterous and utterly unthinkable. Legolas and Aragorn could scarce imagine the discipline, the meticulous planning and attention to detail, the utter strength of will required to successfully manipulate the situation. It was a terrifying thought, for it indicated that these attackers were not the product of the sloppy, uncalculated rage of a rabble. Something far more sinister drove them for such careful and patient orchestration of their acts.

It was all unnerving, for Gonder had been none the wiser that these foul plots were afoot. For all their contemplation, for all their twisting and turning of the problem, for all the pleas of their angry and grieving souls, they could find no answers. They could not unravel this plot. It frustrated Aragorn and Legolas greatly, as they were both intelligent and clever and talented in the ways of thought and war. If there were answers to be had, it would be no easy task in finding them.

Legolas had asked Aragorn what the king thought their next course of action should be. It was a distressing moment because for the first time in a great long while, Aragorn was fazed and uncertain. Should they pull their forces from Southern Ithilien? Should they reinforce Emyn Arnen? Both were easy targets as neither was overly reinforced but populated enough. The Elven colony was still under construction; it lacked ramparts, and only a few of the buildings could withstand the pummel of siege equipment. Though Emyn Arnen was in a better state, it as well hardly boasted a standing army. Yet abandoning Ithilien meant the northeastern towns would be left unprotected, and Gondor would lose its flank. To them both it was a terribly convoluted, tricky situation, and as much as the moment demanded action, there was no clear course to take. Aragorn had decided it best to simply wait until they could confer with the lords of Gondor. The idea was not overly alluring, but Legolas had to agree it was the only option afforded them.

After that the Elven Lord of Ithilien had sought out his own people. His company had been allotted rooms in the Citadel, and he required their attention for a few brief orders. Most knew the situation enough to understand their commander's thinly veiled apprehension. Legolas instructed them to be alert of all that occurred about them and report any aberration to him. If he could trace this black foreboding that had plagued him for days, perhaps they could as well, and certainly additional minds and senses tracking the problem would be beneficial. He also ordered that inventory be taken of what supplies remained in Ithilien. He was sure Aragorn would like to know exactly what gifts would be left for the Easterlings should they be forced to abandon their home. Mostly, though, he had just wanted to assure himself that they were well and that their morale was hearty enough. His discussion with Aragorn had heightened his worries about Ithilien and his people. Greatly troubling him now was a fear that the last of Middle Earth's Elves would be massacred, much as the people of Cair Andros and Linhir had been. To the Easterlings, Ithilien was a crucial territory to possess, and he knew it was poorly fortified. Waves of fear and anger assailed him as he pictured his new home ablaze, the Elves he had so recently come to command laid to waste by the same violent fury he had witnessed in Cair Andros. He could not allow that to happen.

From there he had returned to the Houses of Healing. Faramir had fallen asleep again during his absence, the emotional and physical strain of the events obviously exhausting his wounded body. Gimli assured him that the Steward was well enough, though wholly troubled by the assassination attempt on Aragorn and the attack upon Linhir. The Dwarf himself was dark, his face wound tight with barely controlled fury. Legolas had laid a comforting hand on Gimli's shoulder as they stood at the foot of Faramir's bed, watching their wounded comrade rest. Then Gimli had retired, stating that he intended to send word to the Glittering Caves. Though his people were also few in numbers, he was sure they would be willing to aid Gondor.

Legolas had acquired Fethra soon after that. The little girl had had quite a good time playing with Ioreth's family. The lady healer had informed the Elf that Fethra had eaten her lunch and spent the hours chasing other children in the Houses' wide and beautiful gardens. Legolas had stood a moment and watched their play. The day was warm and bright, despite its horrid beginning, and musical laughter filled the air. There was quite a large brood, though Legolas doubted all of them were of blood relation to Ioreth. Over the years the kindly woman had adopted many an orphaned child. She was quite the amorous mother and caregiver, stern and commanding when the moment required but never condescending. Oft had the Elf witnessed her fiery passion for life, and she poured it into loving her family and her city with all her heart. She was a great asset to all of Gondor.

Fethra had been elated to see him, readily abandoning the other children to leap into his embrace. She prattled about all she had done with the children for a bit as Legolas took her back to the Citadel, explaining to him about one of Ioreth's boys who had of late come into possession of some new game. Legolas had listened to her, smiling and encouraging her stories, but his mind was gone in a swirl of uneasy contemplation. Something about what that dying soldier had said to him was poisoning his mood with frustrated doubt. He needed some place quiet.

So he had gone to the sanctum of Gondor's massive libraries. Down below the Tower of Ecthelion, great winding vaults housed endless stacks of books and memoirs, writings of ages passed. They told lavish and wondrous tales of lore, written about people and places of the world's history in languages long forgotten. Great tales of might, tomes of wars and myths, personal diaries, treatises on government, essays concerning Elves and men and Dwarves… These things had come to find eternal rest in the tombs below the White Tower, where rarely did they now see light. Few now lived who could decipher the ancient scrawls of their authors, and they had been left to rot in the dank dungeons. The Elf had hoped to find  _something_ , some piece of information that might yield an answer to the questions disturbing him. He was not certain what had made him so certain he would find information down here among the ghosts of the past, but he was certain, nonetheless. At least, he had been. Now he was beginning to think he might have been mistaken.

Legolas stared down at the words of Quenya laid elegantly into the stained parchment before him. He was by no means a scholar, but he knew enough of the ancient language to decipher most of its meaning. It was some sort of log one of the sons of Feänor had kept during the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. The account spoke of Maglor slaying the duplicitous Uldor, the son of Ulfang the Black who had betrayed the Elves. It was a rather long tale, littered with sorrow over Caranthir's death and rage over the loss of the Silmaril. Yet it revealed nothing of the ways of the Easterlings. Apparently, even so many years back they were but a shadow, a mystery that spoke with not words, but with violence.

Frustrated, the Elf dropped the leaf unto the stack before him. A few candles were burning wearily, shedding yellow light into the small room, chasing back the oppressive blanket of shadows. So deep below the Tower was this vault that no sunlight could find its way inside it. The fair prince nearly shuddered; how he hated such enclosed places!

Legolas looked to the pile of books and rolled parchment he had collected from the disorganized stacks. The sheer volume of it was discouraging to say the least. Already he had read of Wainriders, of the terrible war in Ithilien during the Battle of the Camp in the Third Age. Gondor had nearly fallen then when its fiercest enemies, the Wainriders and the Haradrim, had joined forces and launched their attack upon the nation. King Ondoher and his two sons had been killed during the assault, and the line of Kings had not truly recovered since. Much had been written about that time, for there had been great unrest and fear that Gondor would fall. Yet, still, he could find little about the men of Harad themselves. Of their customs the scribes had recorded naught, save that they were fierce and cunning. Apparently much effort had been placed in glorifying the victorious Battle of the Camp, during which Eärnil II had earned respect enough to take the throne in the wake of the war. Legolas found great gaps in the accounts, the missing pages likely lost to time or laziness. The Elf found it inconceivable that there was so little information present about the Easterlings, given Gondor's long and terrible history with them. Could men possibly be so unobservant of their foes? He did not know, but it was a depressing thought.

The words began to blur, and he was wearied of study. He stood slowly and stepped to the small cot where Fethra had fallen asleep. The child had not been overly supportive of his decision to spend the remainder of the day with his thoughts buried in books, whining, moaning, and doing just about everything and anything in her power to gain his attention. He had grown frustrated with her, but he had shoved aside his annoyance and pulled her struggling form into his lap. She had immediately smiled and started bouncing happily, playing with his hair. Suspecting that she was probably a bit more tired than she would have him believe, he began to tell her the story of the making of the world, of Ilüvatar's song and the Valar. He spoke of Elves and men and Dwarves. As interested as she was in his melodies and tales, soon enough her eyes had begun to droop. She had fallen asleep, her tiny form nestled in his arms, not long after that. Extremely pleased with himself, he had deposited her on the cot that must have once served the keeper of this vault and went back to his research.

Now he sat on the small bed. His side began to throb again. Only in the quiet moments, when he could not direct his attention elsewhere, did his wound trouble him. He lay down to relieve the strain on his hurting ribs and chest, and he draped his sore arm across his stomach. Fethra unconsciously snuggled closer to him, and he wrapped his other arm about her.

Blankly he stared at the stacks of books against the far wall. His mind was racing with names and places, with dates and events, but he could not put the facts together to form any sort of cohesive picture. The image of the poor lad who had died this day flitted across his mind relentlessly, and he closed his eyes.  _"They know you…" Spies, surely. Already they have infiltrated our forces._  And yet… the conclusion did not satisfy him. The way the boy's eye had centered upon him and only him.  _"They see you."_ This was more than a simple message. It had been a clue to look elsewhere.  _"I see."_

_I see._

Legolas opened his eyes and sat up quickly.

_Of course! How could I have been so blind?_


	9. To Rack and Ruin

"Gimli!"

The Dwarf turned at Legolas' call. His small eyes widened at his friend's swift approach, and he halted his walk. "Fool Elf! Where have you been? Has that simple mind of yours become so lost in trees and stars to not realize the hours spent?"

Legolas stopped momentarily. The thought bothered him so he took the time to consider Gimli's words, pausing in his racing thoughts to realize that the day had disappeared. It was evening now, and the purple twilight visible through the open windows of the Tower of Ecthelion. Apparently much more time than he had originally estimated had passed during his excursion into the depths of the libraries. He fitted Gimli with an apologetic stare, chastising himself silently for his lapse in sense. "I have been in the vaults, Gimli, and I–"

The Dwarf shook his head and pulled his companion close to the wall of the corridor. The cool stone brushed roughly against Legolas' arm, and the Elf narrowed his eyes, wondering at Gimli's forcefulness. "You have not heard, then," the stout creature surmised in a hushed tone.

He shook his head dumbly, adjusting Fethra's sleeping form a bit upon his shoulder. "What?"

Gimli's eyes darted about the busy hallway for a moment. Pages and servants rushed around, carrying themselves with tension and doubt. A great ruckus had claimed the normally quiet Tower, filling its typically vacant passages with commotion. In a short time the king would assemble his lords in the great meeting hall, and much work was being done to prepare the room for the important event. The Dwarf's face was taut with anxiety and anger. When he grew satisfied that his words would fall upon Legolas' ears alone, he began to explain the source of his distress. "Prince Imrahil arrived but an hour ago. His party was attacked in transit."

The Elf felt his weary muscles tighten in anger and apprehension. He did not like the furious glint in Gimli's eyes nor the implication of those few words. And he did not like the question he found himself asking yet again. "How many were killed?"

"All save four."

A nearby maid dropped a tray of dishes. The crack of shattering glass filled the air, resounding down the great hall and echoing off the dark, vaulted ceilings. "So many?" Legolas whispered.

Gimli's black eyes were squinted in contempt. "Aye," he answered, his voice throaty and strained with emotion, "including one of the prince's sons."

The Elf closed his eyes and leaned into the cool stone. Despite himself and his race he was glad for the strength of rock. It was hard and firm against his skin, and it seemed to draw away from him the heat of his anger, the blaze of his anguish, and the pain of his exhausted body. Unyielding, unwavering, it had withstood much in its existence, perhaps as much as he had. Surely to it this present storm was simply one more, and it too would pass and leave this place much the same as it had been before. Legolas wished he could have such unending equanimity, for then his spirit would not be so torn, so agonized. At least he would have the strength to look beyond the turmoil of the present and hope for the future.

Gimli was speaking. With a great measure of will he managed to concentrate on his companion. "It seems that the prince only yesterday learned of Linhir's plight, and by then there was naught he could do. The Easterlings had set the town ablaze and abandoned it, such as was done with Cair Andros. They must have swept north on the roads through Lebennin. Many riders were dispatched from Dol Amroth, riders that never reached the White City. They were hunted and killed."

Legolas gritted his teeth. "Thus explaining the odd silence." He had been right to think their enemy clever and quick, for executing such a difficult feat as to cut off all communication between Gondor's various regions required remarkable planning.

Gimli nodded darkly. "Presumably they released that poor lad on the road, close enough to Minas Tirith so that he would survive only to deliver his message." The Dwarf grunted hotly. "Of all the black things I have seen in this world, I believe this to be the most foul, the most cowardly! Have they no sense of duty, of decorum in war…" The Dwarf trailed off, too furious to finish. It was a pointless question, at any rate, and not one Legolas could even begin to answer.

The Elf remembered the weight in his hand and with sudden insistence his previously forgotten discovery slammed back into his head. He shifted Fethra again to free his arm and handed what he had found amidst the stacks below to his friend.

Gimli regarded the Elf with questioning eyes for a moment before taking the offered item. It was a dusty, old book. Once it had been bound in red leather, but the color had faded with time to a brownish gray. The pages were warped and wrinkled, indicating that at one point in time the volume had been placed somewhere quite damp and forgotten.

The Dwarf's ruddy face crinkled in confusion. He swept a gloved thumb over the cover of the book, wiping away the dirt that had accumulated upon it. Engrained into the leather was gilded lettering. "What is this?" Gimli opened the book and wrinkled his nose at the spray of dust. Upon the pages was great flowing script, beautiful in its curves and lines. The Dwarf shook his head. "I cannot read this."

"Neither can I, at least not to any significant extent. But I do know this word." One slender finger swept over the title of the book. "It is Adûnaic for  _palantíri_." Gimli suddenly looked up at him. Legolas went on quickly, sensing his friend's interest and excited by what he had discovered. "I found this book in the great vaults this afternoon. What that soldier said did not sit well with me. The more I considered his words, the greater my unease became. Spies, certainly. Last night's foray more than proved that fact. I think there is more, though, Gimli. Much more."

"You speak in riddles, Elf. Talk plainly of your thoughts!" hissed the Dwarf in frustration.

Legolas' eyes narrowed. "He looked right at me, Gimli. At  _me_. Why would he do that, unless he meant to say something that I would understand?"

Gimli shook his head in clear puzzlement. "What would you understand, though?"

Frustrated, the Elf sighed. Herein lied the holes in his logic. He could not, despite all his careful consideration and contemplation, unravel why the poor soldier had focused upon him when delivering his final message. Faramir had been right beside him. Why had the dying soul waited, prolonging his pain and suffering, simply to tell the Elf? It made little sense. "I do not know, my friend, but I believe it has something to do with this." He swept his fingers over the cover of the book and dropped his tone to a hushed whisper. "How else could they see so much?"

For a moment neither spoke. Legolas watched the emotions swirl in Gimli's distant eyes, observing the Dwarf digesting and trying to solve this enigma. It was a complex and tangled mess, a monster of shady fact and uncertain truths, of fear and doubt that the reality was far more than the nightmare they all perceived. Finally, Gimli looked up and held his companion's gaze. A flash of betrayal shone in his dark eyes. "If what you say is true, then… That makes little sense!" He spoke in a rushed whisper. "It was said only two of the  _palantíri_  remained after the war, and both are here in Minas Tirith. Both have been sealed, and none save Aragorn can access them!"

Legolas looked down. To say he had not already considered these facts would be a blatant lie. It had occurred to him, and it was not anything he could explain. There were once seven  _palantíri_ , seven seeing stones gifted to the Númenoreans by Feänor. Elendil had brought the crystalline globes to Middle Earth ages prior. Three had certainly been lost. One had been returned to Aman. Two were present in Minas Tirith: that of Denethor, Faramir's father, which had been entombed with him in the Houses of the Dead, and that which Aragorn kept in his private towers. This last seeing stone had been recovered from Isengard during the War of the Ring.

The fate of only one was a mystery. Rumor spoke of the Dark Lord's acquisition of the  _palantír_  of Minas Ithil and his use of it during the War of the Ring to coordinate his forces with those of the demented Saruman the Wise. Presumably it had disappeared during the fall of Barad-dûr, but none had confirmed this fact. The elation of defeating Sauron had overridden any need to pick through the rubble of his empire for lost relics.

The Easterlings had once been an ally of Mordor. It was not completely inconceivable, he supposed, to theorize that they had somehow come into possession of the lost  _palantír_. However, even if he was willing to make such a speculative assumption, this hypothesis of his remained somewhat groundless. Nobody save the king could enter either the Houses of the Dead or the private vaults within the Tower of Ecthelion. Both were heavily guarded. It seemed extremely unlikely even the most adept of spies could sneak inside, steal the  _palantír_ , and slip out again undetected. Supposing the Easterlings already possessed a  _palantír_ , what could they possibly be observing with it? The bleak darkness within the Houses of the Dead? An empty tower, void of action or sensitive information?

"I know it appears false and frivolous, but I cannot for all the want of my mind abandon what my heart cries. Somehow a  _palantír_  is involved in this plot. I am certain of it. That boy meant for us to know this. The Easterlings are far too clever; they would not award us so obvious or easy a hint!" They were quiet a moment, and the words sunk deeply into them both, heightening a storm of ambiguity and trepidation. These thoughts were little more than wild suppositions borne from desperation and exhaustion. Such a realization dampened Legolas' resolve, and he regretted this silly idea. Embarrassed, he afforded Gimli a helpless stare that eventually became a small, sad grin. "You think me mad."

"No more than is your wont," jested Gimli quietly with a small chuckle. Still, there was a certain seriousness lacing his words. Though hidden, it indicated his appreciation for Legolas' thoughts. The prince felt a bit relieved, grateful that his rambling had made some sense to his dear friend. "Shall we tell Aragorn of this?"

Legolas opened his mouth to answer, but he was interrupted by the sound of familiar voices approaching. One was soft, feminine and melodic. Though the tone was quiet, the Elf's keen ears clearly perceived all that was said. A man responded. Faramir and Éowyn.

The Elf turned and watched as husband and wife made their way slowly through the throng of people gathered in the corridor outside the meeting hall. He was leaning upon her, though from his downcast expression he clearly resented his need for assistance. The steward had dressed in a formal tunic and coat, and he looked to have recently bathed. His lean face was a bit drawn and pale, but his eyes lacked no luster. His gait was disturbed by his injury, and he limped quite perceptibly despite all his best efforts to hide his weakness.

Legolas' eyes settled on Éowyn. She was quite beautiful, with thick hair spun of gold and skin fair and pale. Her brow was high and her features fine. She carried herself with all the grace and stature of royalty, and it was well warranted as she was both the sister of Rohan's king and the wife of Gondor's steward. Although she appeared perhaps demure and delicate on first inspection, Legolas knew that behind those deep, blue eyes a sharp wit and an icy strength lay in wait. As a shield maiden of Rohan, Éowyn had learned to fight with both hand and mind, and she was no easy enemy to defeat. Though often aloof and even cold, she hid well the warmth of her love for her husband and his people. The Elf knew little of her relationship with Faramir, save that they had met but a few days after the Battle of Pelennor Fields in the Houses of Healing. They were a private sort, and Legolas knew it was not his place to understand the nature of their marriage save that their devotion to each other ran strong and deep.

They stopped upon reaching the Elf and Dwarf. Gimli shook his head and reprimanded Faramir almost immediately. "You should be resting, Master Ranger."

The man was not amused by Gimli's scolding, but he kept his temper in check. "I am Steward of Gondor, Master Dwarf. Some duties are more important than rest, for better or worse." Gimli grunted, also unappreciative of Faramir's dismissive response. But the steward only looked to Legolas. "We shall begin shortly."

Legolas nodded. Fethra suddenly lifted her small head from the Elf's shoulder. Her chubby fist came to rub her eyes. "Leglass?" she murmured, glancing around. She nuzzled closer to her protector once she realized she was in a strange place and surrounded by strange people. Clinging tighter to him, she burrowed her face into the crook of his neck, hiding beneath his hair.

 _You forgetful creature!_  His thoughts blasted him for his foolery.  _What are you to do with this child? You cannot take her into the king's assembly!_  He felt like smacking himself; perhaps the physical force of the blow would clear his foolish head and allow some sense to waft through the haze of fatigue and flippant theories. There was no time to seek out a caregiver for Fethra at the moment. The meeting was about to begin.

A look of distress must have passed upon his face, for Éowyn released her husband's arm and stepped closer. Her eyes settled upon the little girl, and then she looked to Legolas. A familiar expression of shock and anger coursed over her face. Legolas had seen such a look long ago, when the two children had arrived in Meduseld bearing news of the Uruk-hai's attack on its neighboring towns. Two years later the ferocity of her anger struck him just as clearly. "Is she the one?" breathed the White Lady of Rohan. Obviously Éowyn had been informed of the details concerning Cair Andros' fall. The Elf imagined that at this juncture such knowledge had become quite commonplace in Gondor.

The Elf nodded sadly. On light footfalls, Éowyn stepped to stand behind him. Legolas glanced over his shoulder and saw the woman smile gently for the small child. Rarely did the White Lady smile so genuinely, but when she did it seemed all the beauty of the earth gathered in her eyes. "Hello, my lady," she said softly. Pale fingers tipped by clear nails pushed a lock of hair behind Fethra's ear. "My name is Éowyn."

One green eye peeked from over the top of Legolas' shoulder. Fethra's hands were balled tightly in the Elf's hair, but she moved her face from behind the blond tresses. Éowyn grinned joyfully. "Ah! There you are! And how pretty you are, as well. How might I address you, my lady?"

"Fethra," she whispered. Her gaze was suspicious.

Éowyn grinned. "Fethra! Would you like to come with me?"

The little girl shook her head firmly and held tighter to Legolas. The Elf sighed gently, trying to dislodge her from her grip upon him. "You must go with Lady Éowyn, little one." Her lower lip started to quiver and her eyes began to glisten with newly formed tears. Legolas felt something inside him begin to ache in unhappy anticipation. Fethra whimpered as he turned and tried to hand her to Éowyn's open arms. "I promise you," he whispered gently, "I will not be long. But I must go for a little while."

"No!" cried Fethra. Legolas grimaced as big tears streaked from the cranky child's eyes. "No! Leglass!" Obviously she was quite tired of being handed off to whomever was available. Legolas felt terrible for such treatment, but he was the Lord of Ithilien and Aragorn's closest friend; he could not abandon his duties to Gondor and to his brother.

Fethra began to bawl quite loudly, throwing a vicious tantrum and struggling to hold to Legolas' hair and clothes. Éowyn took the struggling girl, her own expression annoyed and a bit hurt at the display. The Elf offered the woman an apologetic glance as he finally succeeded in pulling free from Fethra's grasp. Éowyn took her into her arms, but Fethra seemed determined not to make this easy or pleasant. Angered and upset with himself, Legolas took the child's face in his hands and leaned closed to her. "Stop this, Fethra," he ordered softly. His tone was gentle but firm, and it left no room for argument. "I have duties to which I must attend."

"But why, Leglass?" she cried, staring at him with sad, wide eyes. "Don't you want me any more?"

The words hurt, and he was greatly troubled that she could imagine such a thing. Some part of him wondered if she was not manipulating him, and that hurt more. "Of course I do. But I am a prince and lord, Fethra. I need to aid my king." He dipped his face close and leaned his forehead upon hers. Bright blue eyes locked with teary green ones. "I promise you that I will be back as soon as I can be. Go with Lady Éowyn."

The little girl stopped her weeping and sniffled. "Miss you, Leglass," she said quietly, as if in a final attempt to keep him close.

It nearly worked. Guilt and love meshed together in the Elf's heart, and he nearly faltered. He wished that this wretched council did not need to occur, that all of this nightmare would simply disappear and leave them in peace. Nothing was ever so easy. He kissed her cheek. Fethra had calmed considerably and was now settled in Éowyn's embrace, holding to the woman obediently. Legolas offered Éowyn a grateful glance, which she returned with a curt nod. She gave her husband a glance, and then she pivoted and began to walk down the hall, heading back towards the privacy of the Citadel. Though she hid it well, Legolas detected her discomfort in her eyes clearly enough, and the Elf felt terribly ashamed of how Fethra had just acted.

He watched until they were out of sight in the mess of people. Then Gimli grasped his arm, drawing his attention. "Come, Master Elf. It is time."

* * *

The meeting hall was lavish and palatial, symbolizing the mighty stature of the nation. Seated near the base of the White Tower, it was a grand, wide area, filled with many open windows and arched pillars. The vaulted ceiling was high above them and expertly adorned with a beautiful mural of the rising of Númenor from the waves of the tumultuous sea. When Ecthelion I had ordered the tower restored, this work had been painstakingly painted upon the curved surface as an homage to the origins of Gondor. It was quite a sweeping and glorious picture, lavish in color and symbolism. Only the best of Gondor's artists had been permitted to work on the project.

From the tops of the stone walls hung long, flowing tapestries woven of the finest cloth that would neither fade nor tear. Adorning the room as well were the standards of the king, suspended from the ceiling in great black streamers. The floor was smooth and polished, and it glowed brightly as the setting sun shined upon it. In its center was a large red oak table. It was shaped as a ring with no middle to it, leaving a wide open space. Around the circle's rim were many chairs, and directly opposite the king's was a small gap in the ring. This allowed a speaker to enter the middle and talk to all directly. Aragorn had purposefully asked the wood-workers to make it as such so that all could equally speak and listen.

Presently men were taking their places about the grand table. Legolas recognized some as the regional lords or Aragorn's personal advisers. Others he did not know, the governor's of more distant places perhaps or newly appointed. The call had gone out to all of Gondor's townships and provinces to send representatives to this emergency assembly. Only the closest had been able to heed the summons. The men gathered spoke in hushed whispers, but the Elf heard their tense words, their fears, their suspicions. All of Gondor was nearly in a state of panic. Legolas vaguely wondered if Aragorn knew how desperate the situation was becoming.

As he walked around the table, he spotted Imrahil and a young man sitting not far from Aragorn's vacant seat. The Prince of Dol Amroth was a stately man, with gray piercing eyes settled into a finely chiseled face. His cheekbones were highly set and his jaw was strong and vehement. Light hair framed his narrow face. He was a serious man, demanding respect from all he commanded. Legolas and Gimli had spent quite some time in his presence after the Battle of Pelennor Fields, and they both had found him to be quite agreeable. Imrahil claimed to have within him some Elven blood, and though such a thing was difficult to substantiate, Legolas could not help but believe him. He carried himself a bit different from his peers, with a sense of grace and purpose that most men did not even notice. Loyal and powerful, he was a valuable ally to Gondor, one the nation could not afford to lose.

Legolas felt a pang of sympathy shake him as he approached the lord. The young man sitting beside him was clearly another of his sons. He appeared no older than the boy who had died earlier that day, his face broken with sorrow and shame. The beginning of a young beard was clinging to his pale face. Intently he watched his father, searching perhaps for signs of forgiveness, of acceptance. However, Imrahil's face was a picture of controlled anguish, of muted rage and grief.

Legolas stopped at Imrahil's side. The man turned, and his baleful glare vanished. "Prince Legolas," he said softly. He rose stiffly and offered the Elf a short bow. Then he gestured to the young man who had also risen behind him. "This is my youngest son, Amrothos."

The boy bowed lowly, obviously quite nervous at the sight of an Elf. "My Lord," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly and betraying his frail composure.

The Elf prince smiled, hoping to assuage the young man's anxieties. Certainly the boy had suffered enough this day without the added pressure of appearing stoic before a stranger. "I am pleased to meet you, Amrothos."

Imrahil released a slow breath, drawing the Elf's attention. "It is good to see you again, my friend. I only wish the circumstances were better."

Indeed it had been quite some time since they had last met. In fact, the occasion had also marked the last time he had ventured into this great hall. It had been nearly a year earlier, and Aragorn had called a meeting of the Lords of Gondor to discuss matters of the state, including the rebuilding of Ithilien. How very different things had been then! A time of peace, of prosperity, of hope for the bright future… Everything now stood threatened. Everything of which they had so light-heartedly spoken, all their grand plans and aspiations, everything they had dreamed…

Legolas laid a hand on the man's shoulder. "My heart grieves deeply for your loss," he said softly.

Imrahil was not one prone to displays of emotion, but it was clear he appreciated the archer's sentiments. He unfolded his hands and grasped Legolas' arm. The Elf could see the unshed tears in his eyes. "Aye." His voice was choked with coarse sorrow. "It is a terrible thing to lose a son. Alas for Ercirion! He was quite the mischievous one in life. Death is far too constrictive a shroud for such a vibrant spirit."

Legolas squeezed the other's shoulder firmly, showing his support. "His death will not be in vain," said the Elf resolutely.

The Prince of Dol Amroth narrowed his eyes viciously. "No," he hissed, his voice seething and venomous, "it will not." He exuded wrath as clearly as the sun did life or a tree did peace. Legolas tensed as the waves of the man's fury broke against him. The Elf closed his eyes a moment.  _Tathar… Ercirion… how many more will die?_

There was a commotion at the great doors, and Legolas turned to look. A page announced in a loud, clear voice, "The King comes!"

The Elf offered Imrahil one last reassuring look before leaving the prince. He sought a spot between Gimli and Faramir, and he sank into the chair. His side immediately began to ache again, and he clenched his teeth in annoyance. Now was certainly not the time for this confounded wound to distract him. Pushing aside the pain, he set the old book he had found upon the floor and then leaned back in his chair. Yet the hurt would not be so easily silenced. Breathing became a trying venture, and his chest throbbed in time with his racing heart. Legolas clenched his jaw, fighting an unusual wave of dizziness. His throat burned and he squeezed shut his eyes.  _Not now… please, not now!_  His mind spun and pain seered him. All sense of concentration vanished.

"Elf!" came a harsh whisper from his side. Legolas opened his eyes and gasped. His right hand strayed to his left side, curling protectively about his chest. He turned, startled and winded, to see Gimli watching him with irritated yet concerned eyes. "What ails you?"

 _What ails me? I know not!_  Yet he did not voice his fearful frustration. There was no time to assure Gimli he was well. The page shouted again, his voice ringing clearly through the massive hall. "All hail King Elessar!"

The sound of chairs scraping on the floor filled the room, reverberating off of the high walls and ceiling. Everyone in attendance stood respectfully as Aragorn quickly entered through the large doors. Legolas swallowed his discomfort, his eyes tracing his friend's troubled face. Swiftly the man took his seat between Faramir and Éomer. Each representative sat once more. The doors were slammed shut, sealing the room from outside distraction.

There was silence for a few moments as each being considered the dismal situation about which they had all been called together to discuss. Breaths were held. All eyes were upon the king. Finally Aragorn spoke. "I have called you here today in regards to the recent attacks upon our nation." His voice was strong, clear, and focused. Legolas smiled inwardly; he had come so far since his time hiding among the Elves in Rivendell. It was rather amusing to see Elessar the King juxtaposed beside Aragorn the Ranger. "As many of you know, two days ago the outpost of Cair Andros was attacked. The town was razed and its people slaughtered. The forces dispatched to render aid were ambushed and forced to retreat." Aragorn paused a moment. It was clear to all he was struggling to contain his rage. "Last night, as my Queen and I slumbered, our lives were threatened by an assassin." A hushed murmur went around the rounded table. "Today we have also received word that Linhir has been destroyed. There were apparently no survivors. The last of the town's folk died but a few hours ago in the Houses of Healing." The king's eyes sought Imrahil's. Legolas saw the grief pass through Aragorn's gaze. "And during his journey to Minas Tirith, Prince Imrahil's party was brutally attacked. Many lives were lost."

Obviously not all present knew of the most recent developments. Éomer glanced about the table, his young, handsome face perturbed and sullen. Many mirrored his motion, darting glances at Imrahil and noticeable absence of his middle child. Aragorn allowed these words to sink their venomous and terrible fangs into the council before continuing. "These are not isolated incidents. Each has been marked by the golden serpent. For whatever cause, whatever purpose, the Haradrim threaten the people of Gondor once more. This cannot be allowed to continue. Far too many lives have been lost to their blood lust. We must decide how to act." Aragorn glanced around at his advisers, lords, and friends. They were silent, obviously uncertain and suspicious of both the situation and subject. "Please, speak freely. There is no time for formality, and I value any opinion."

The quiet about the table lasted only a moment longer. Glances were shared. Tensions festered. Finally, Golasgil of Anfalas asked, "There is no doubt the Haradrim are behind these attacks?"

Aragorn sadly shook his head. "None," he declared. Legolas watched the muscles of his face flex and tense as he stifled his anger. "They have made no effort to hide their intentions. At each instance the serpent in his bloody sea was left for those present to find. There is no doubt."

"Well, then, there is an obvious answer," spoke Valinhern of Lossarnach. Black eyes darted about those present, seeking agreement. "We must declare war." A few heads bobbed in agreement, and there was a general murmur of consent.

Faramir shook his head. "Do not be so hasty to commit us to combat, Lord Valinhern," warned the steward. His gray eyes narrowed and his face grew taut with anger and warning. "We know little of their intentions and even less of their strengths."

"It would require no great force to overcome Cair Andros," mused Duinhir, lord of Morthond. "It was never sufficiently refortified after the War of the Ring. Its population was mostly tradesmen and merchants. Given even a small host of skilled warriors, it would have fallen quite easily." Legolas tightened his hand into a fist as the images of the destroyed town tormented him again. The burnt bodies. The destroyed buildings. The stench of blood and death. Rage was cunning, it seemed, and once again the need for revenge became strong within him, shaking and pummeling the foundation of his peace. Such a powerful weapon, it made weak his logic and restraint, and he was almost willing to oblige it. The call for war was entirely too alluring. "Surely we have learned from past torments that the Easterlings are vile and skilled in brutality."

Faramir spoke quickly, "You see but one angle, sir. A closer inspection of the man from Linhir who passed away this morning revealed he had been beaten and held captive for days. Consider the timing! At least two forces are at work here, most likely operating in cohort with each other. One company must have occupied Linhir whilst the other attacked Cair Andros."

"Thus two forces, and not one," surmised one of Aragorn's advisers. The man was called Irehadde, and Legolas knew little of him save that he cared not for Faramir. Irehadde was a veteran soldier for the northern Dúnedain. He had fought valiantly at Pelennor Fields, and proudly wore a great scar upon his face from an Orc axe as a symbol of his loyalty to Aragorn. Since Aragorn's crowning, many of the Dúnedain had joined their leader in Gondor as advisers or soldiers. Often the views of these men conflicted with those of the old governing body in Minas Tirith. A great deal of friction existed between the White and Royal Guards and the Dúnedain, and it was a complicated mess into which Legolas wished not to involve himself. "It makes little difference if there are dozens of separate units. We must attack, and we must do so ruthlessly!"

Faramir bristled. Legolas felt him tense and watched the fury pass over his friend's normally passive face from the corner of his eye. Irehadde could be simply incorrigibly arrogant at times, and his answer to any problem was swift violence. The Elf did not envy Faramir's position. The Dúnadan supposed he held the king's ear above any other with no matter to the nature of the topic. He was a difficult person to satisfy and he was harsh when challenged. This was not the place for a rancorous debate, and despite his obvious ire, Faramir knew that. After a short breath, his face relaxed and he looked away, disgusted. Legolas breathed a silent sigh of relief. Faramir had the patience of an Elf at times.

Éomer began to speak, and the Elven lord turned his attention upon the young King of Rohan. "We can assume nothing. What of their intentions? What if provoking a war is what they want? Perhaps they mean to lure us with some sort of ruse that will leave us unable to defeat them…"

"That is your fear speaking, King Éomer, and I mean no disrespect with those words," answered Irehadde. Valinhern nodded emphatically. "Do you not see through their guise? They terrorize our lands and people! They believe with fear they can control us. These attacks are meant to instill doubt and little more. They seek to intimidate us into inaction! Does that not speak to their inferior size, to their inferior power? They avoid open war because they know they will not win!"

As much as Legolas did not care for Irehadde's attitude, he could not deny that the man made some sense. He had not really considered such logic previously. Perhaps the Easterlings truly did mean to simply frighten Gondor. Fear was a powerful tool. It bred unease and hesitation, and both were dangerous plights to a nation at war. They were clever, after all, and surely their numbers could not be so great given their recent losses during the War of the Ring. If they meant to confuse Gondor into a frightened stasis, it might afford them the time they needed to build forces sufficient enough to conquer the nation of men.

But even as he mulled over these thoughts, Legolas was forced immediately to cast them aside. For some inexplicable reason, the rationale was too simple, the answers coming far too easily. He remembered the terrible snake branded into the boy's chest and the blood that had collected about the mark. Those eyes, so tormented and terrorized, holding his, trying to warn him…

A throb of angry shouting drew him back to the argument. Éomer bellowed, "This is folly! Do you not understand? These men have murdered and maimed to infuriate us into pursuing war! If we attack them we will fall for their deception!" His eyes flashed as he glanced around the table. "They took great pains to hide Linhir's destruction from the eyes and ears of Dol Amroth's scouts. Why do such a thing? Why take such an extreme risk?"

It was not a question any could answer with finality, but Irehadde tried to do so at any rate. "To divert our concerns. While we ponder clues that lead to no useful deduction, they plan and build. They prepare for their war upon us. And when we fall, we will have naught to blame but our own misgivings and paranoid thoughts. Our minds are our worst enemies." The Dúnadan glanced around the table suspiciously. His eyes fell to Legolas and narrowed. The Elf was surprised at the action, alarm and then ire rattling him. Surely the man did not think…

Aragorn did not miss the action and settled a rancorous glare upon Irehadde. "Peace, my Lord. Each at this table has proven himself most worthy of trust."

"My King," said Faramir, turning hard eyes upon his liege and companion, "we cannot simply commit ourselves to war. It is clear from this debate alone that far too much remains hidden from us. We must search for answers, lest we make rash and uninformed judgements that we will later regret." Legolas lowered his eyes, his lips twisting into a small grin.

Irehadde did not take this insult silently. "Search for answers? And do what with them, Steward? Your silly hunt for the truth will end with us exactly where we started, only at a greater disadvantage!"

"And what will the people think if we do nothing in response to these attacks?" another man demanded.

Aragorn raised his hand to still the fight that was brewing. The hall was silent a moment, the echo of angry voices fading. The tension grew hotter and tighter, frustration creating a torturous tempest of doubt and anger. "We can ill afford to quarrel amongst ourselves," Gimli whispered. Legolas turned to look at him, but the Dwarf's eyes seemed to be tiny black beads set into a mess of red hair and skin. He looked at the grain of the polished oak, apparently intently interested in its swirling patterns. The Elf felt his spirits tumble at the sight of his friend's dark mood.

Eventually Imrahil spoke. The words came with great effort, his gaze slowly centering upon his king. "If not war," said the Prince of Dol Amroth, "then what? Surely you will not allow these… butcherers to escape the wrath of punishment, my King."

Sympathy glowed in Aragorn's eyes, but the sentiment did not reach his voice. "We will permit them no such luxury, Prince Imrahil. I must agree with the Steward; declaring war on an enemy of which we know little is foolhardy at best and disastrous at worst. We must learn more of  _what_  they intend. I believe the best course of action may be to fortify what we can and minimalize the loss of life."

"And then, my Lord?" questioned Valinhern. It was evident from the tone of his voice that he cared little for this idea.

Aragorn released a slow breath. "We wait."

"With all due respect, sire, I must object," countered Irehadde. "If we postpone offensive action now, we may lose the opportunity and forfeit any advantage we have."

"Objection noted. I have made my decision."

Silence. Whether or not they ageed with the king's verdict, each was required to accept it by law and oath of loyalty. Grudging were the eyes of a few, but most seemed to recognize Aragorn's plan for its merits. "I will not have towns ravaged, regardless of the enemy's intent. No more will our people suffer. We must reinforce our defenses. Send word to the remote villages that their inhabitants should flee to capital cities. It is obvious the Easterlings seek to make easy targets of weak posts. Reinforce what we can, and abandon and destroy what we cannot."

The response to Aragorn's orders came in the form of a series of grunts and nods. Then the king turned to Faramir. "What of Ithilien? Should it be attacked, can it possibly withstand it?"

The steward looked doubtful for a moment, and Legolas understood his concern. Ithilien was a special case. No other portion of Gondor's territory had for so long been choked by the black forces of Mordor. No other realm had been so damaged, so ruined, so utterly destroyed. Rebuilding the once glorious land had been a mighty task, and it would take years upon years to see the cities and forests restored. It was greatly vulnerable, with only cracked ramparts guarding Emyn Arnen and few men to guard them at that. Supplies were few aside from what was spent on construction. It would hardly withstand an assault, much less a siege.

"I do not know, my Lord," finally answered Faramir. A pained look of shame and defeat briefly claimed his face, and he glanced to Legolas. "We would not go easily, given the chance to defend our keep." He released a short breath and grimaced with the action. "However, to say we have the resources to repel an onslaught would be little more than a lie."

Aragorn was not pleased with the assessment, but he cast aside his disappointment. "Then we have little choice. Pull everyone back. We can use your men to reinforce Minas Tirith." Faramir's expression quickly became downcast. Though Aragorn's orders were not meant to insult or degrade him in the slightest, Legolas could sympathize with his damaged pride. For a lord to abandon his keep was unbecoming and embarrassing, no matter the circumstances surrounding the retreat. But the steward said nothing, merely nodding and leaning tiredly back into his chair.

"What of our own forces, sir?" asked Duinhir. Bright eyes watched the king intently, waiting for some sort of reassurance that Aragorn retained command over this terrible situation.

Aragorn sighed. The sound of his tired, languid breath was all but imperctible to the men, but the Elf heard it clearly enough. "We must prepare for war," admitted the king. Irehadde smiled haughtily. "Send all men who can be spared to Minas Tirith. I have already requested the aid of the Elves of Ithilien, and they are riding to the White City as we speak."

Gimli grunted. "You have the aid of the Dwarves of the Glittering Caves as well, son of Arathorn. Earlier I sent word to them, and they will stand ready."

"And Rohan is, of course, at Gondor's side in peace and war, my Lord," added Éomer adamantly. His jaw was firmly set and his eyes were bright. "You need only ask it of me, and the Riders of the Mark will be at your disposal."

To Éomer and Gimli, Aragorn offered a smile of gratitude. Legolas felt assured knowing that the king's friends were readily offering their support and that that support gave Aragorn comfort. No matter the danger, no matter the anguish or fear, nothing could cut their bond of brotherhood.

The king's eyes gained a hard glint. "We shall send word west to the Shire, as well. I am quite certain the Hobbits would be willing to lend us our aid. Peregrin Took is Knight to this realm; he will not easily disregard such a vow."

Irehadde scowled. "Halflings, sir? What can such small creatures do against such a malicious and brutal threat?" he asked incredulously.

Aragorn afforded him a small smile, fond remembrance of times spent with the small folk in the Fellowship glazing his gray eyes. Legolas knew well the source of Aragorn's small joy. Hobbits truly were amazing creatures. In their small hamlet, much of the world rushed by in its violent and turbulent race without their knowing. Ignorance was bliss to them, but even so they bred hearts great and full and minds apt to learn. The Elf had never truly encountered a Hobbit before his days as one of the Nine Walkers; though Bilbo Baggins had years before come to his father's court in Mirkwood on a perilous journey of his own, Legolas had never had an occasion to meet with him. Here again was another aspect of Middle Earth that so bound his spirit to it: he had learned so much about honor, valor, and strength from those four little creatures that he dared not ever doubt the splendor of life's diversities. Samwise Gamgee in particular had regarded him with such innocent awe that he had often wondered how any creature could possibly think so highly of another. To them, the world was good, right, and teeming with hope. Even at the coldest peeks of Caradhras or in the darkest depths of Moria, they never allowed despair to rule their souls. Hobbits were made of greater stuff than they seemed, and Legolas cherished the time he had spent in their company. Their laughter, their silly jokes and banter, their adoration and fascination with him and all things Elvish, had enriched his life.

Aragorn had obviously been thinking the same. To Irehadde, he said, "You would be surprised, my friend, if you knew of the things a Hobbit can do."

"And if the Easterlings should attack again, my Lord?" Valinhern asked. If the man made any attempt to hide the consternation in his voice, it was not noticeable. "We cannot possibly protect our nation on all fronts, and the people have spread wide under the promise of security. Gondor has grown large and wealthy, King Elessar, and we have not the resources to defend every town!"

Duinhir shook his head. A spectre of panic shone in his eyes. "What should we do, Lord, if they strike before we are ready? They have moved so quickly and so unexpectedly in their attacks!"

If Aragorn had an answer to such difficult questions, he did not have time to voice it for outside there came a great ruckus. In the adjacent hall there was a stampede of running feet and a loud boom of voices. The doors to the meeting hall suddenly flung open. All eyes turned to the portal.

Beregond was winded and ashen-faced. He wasted no time with a salute, his frantic, wide eyes meeting Aragorn's. "The Easterlings march on Minas Tirith!" he cried.

For an eternity, it seemed, no one spoke. The awful proclaimation echoed loudly, ringing in their ears and pounding in their hearts. Not a breath could be heard in the vacuous silence. Could this be true? Was waking nightmare finally seizing reality and morphing it into the terrible future all had feared?

Then time broke its stasis and all jerked rapidly into panicked motion. "Reinforce the gates!" exclaimed Aragorn as he rose from his chair. All present did the same, fear and barely contained horror transforming fluid movement into choppy, desperate action. Wood smacked marble as chairs tipped and crashed to the floor. "Get archers on the walls!"

Legolas stood quickly, but searing pain ripped through his side. He cried out and braced his left hand on the table, his right wrapped around his chest. Abruptly the world shifted, and he could hardly find breath. Gasping, he struggled to rise above the agony that had unexplainably claimed him. His pulse boomed in his head, and all he could hear was the deafening rush of blood between his ears. He felt arms grab him. "Go," he moaned, shaking off their holds. "I am fine! Go on without me!"

The world was moving around him, but it all seemed terribly lethargic. Gimli released the Elf, offering him one more worried look before turning and following Faramir. Vaguely Legolas could hear shouting, but his mind was slowed and it sounded extremely distant and unimportant. In a matter of moments he was alone.

It took much longer for the Elf to regain himself. The crippling pain was slow to recede, and he leaned into the table, his body trembling violently as he struggled to ride out the waves of agony. Although it had started in his chest, his entire form felt bent and mangled, and each muscle, each bit of flesh, throbbed and pounded in hurt. His vision blurred. There was nothing but this consuming pain. There was no sound reaching his ears, no cool table beneath his fingertips, nothing to see or taste or smell. There was no air to breathe. Nothing.

Still, as mysteriously as this attack had come, it passed, and Legolas gasped. He sagged against the table as the agony released him from its choking, squeezing grasp. His wheezing breath was coupled with weak sobs, and he realized belatedly that hot tears had broken free from his eyes. Shuddering, he collapsed to the ground. His stomach heaved, bile burning the back of his throat, and he thought for a moment he might be sick. It took all his will not to gag. He knelt a few moments, doubled over, sobbing softly as he fought to regain control over his hurting body. Finally, his composure defeated his nausea, and he managed to right himself.

The Elf leaned back against his chair and drew his knees tightly against his chest, breathing heavily. A cold sweat had bathed him, and he quivered violently. Beating viciously in his chest, his heart refused to slow its frenzied pace. His terrified mind raced and churned, but forming coherent thought was extremely difficult. Breathing deeply was all he could do to regain his lost poise. In and out. The cool air felt wonderful, and for a while he concentrated on that to calm himself.  _In._  He felt his aching chest rise and push against his thighs.  _Out._  He slumped slowly, swallowing uncomfortably. His mouth was dry as though it was full of sand, and his tongue was aching. It was such a foreign sensation. Never before had he felt so weak, so lost, so… ill.

"By Elbereth, what is wrong with me?"

He buried his face into his hands. His head was hammering against his palms, and his gritted his teeth. Tears still stung his eyes, but he blinked them away, disgusted. What was happening to him? Could this attack simply be the product of fatigue, of endless nights spent in restless thought? It was certainly plausible. If only he had afforded himself the time to better heal his body, he would not be so vulnerable.

Still, some part of him was beginning to wonder if any of this was that simple.

Legolas sat still for what seemed to be a long time, distraughtly trying to summon within him some semblance of peace. His composure was fleeting, and he chased it as it dangled before his riled and frightened mind. A cool wind raced through the vacant meeting hall, carrying with it sounds of shouting, of preparations for battle. It reached his ears and slowly came to his lethargic attention. He lifted his head. Even though the speed and ferocity with which this attack had felled him greatly disturbed him, he could not afford to ponder it now.

The Elf leaned forward and struggled to get his feet under him. He rose, shaking, and was rewarded with a stab of pain to his injured side and shoulder. For a moment he feared his wobbling knees might buckle and return him to the hard floor. But he remained standing. Staggering, he quickly went to the open windows and looked outside.

There, approaching from the south, was a great army. Legolas' breath hitched in his throat. It was massive, stretching over the fields for leagues. A great host of men it was, and his frantic eyes traced the lines of soldiers. Thousands. No. Tens of thousands.

Bloody light spilled over the fields, and everything was washed in red and shadow. Banners flew on the wind. Gold and crimsom.  _They have come._

The Elf's eyes narrowed and he finally snatched his elusive composure. The stoic, placid mask claimed his face as he wiped away his now cold tears. Then he drew a deep breath and turned. His lithe body moved like the wind now, all indication of its previous unrest fading in that one cleansing moment. Elegant and renewed with anger and purpose, he charged from the empty meeting hall. Now they would find answers. Now they would exact their revenge.

_It is time._


	10. A Modest Proposal

Through Minas Tirith Legolas raced. "Stay inside your homes!" he shouted to a few stragglers still roaming the darkened roads. The people shot him an alarmed glance before rushing to their houses, leaving the streets vacant and overrun with shadows. A sudden wind moaned and rattled as it struck the buildings, whispering to the Elf an intangible fear. His gooseflesh prickled as he sprinted. Twilight was upon them, the sky a gray, swirling void overhead. During his descent from the Tower, the sun had set, leaving a cold night to descend upon the city.  _Darkness spreads over Minas Tirith,_  he thought, watching as the cold breeze pinched out lantern lights. _Evil approaches!_

At the gates soldiers bustled. They were scrambling into position. Legolas knew thousands of troops across the vast city were readying themselves with a barely controlled sense of panic fueling their feet in flight and their hearts in pounding. Archers were lining the walls, holding their bows ready, though the Elf noticed the fear dancing in their eyes. The massive doors were slowly being shut, and shouting filled the air. Once the gate was closed and secured, none would pass into the inner city. Rows upon rows of troops stationed themselves behind the gates. Should any force breach the gate, these men would lay down their lives to slow the approach to the Citadel.

"Where is the King?" Legolas called to the Captain of the Fourth Gate.

The Elf slowed to a stop as the man gave a curt reply. "He has gone to the Gateway, my lord!"

Legolas ground his teeth together in worry and irritation. He did not thank the man or waste a moment more standing still, taking off in a full sprint through the slowly closing doors and flying down the winding streets. His mind was elsewhere, charged with fear and apprehension. Aragorn should not be at the Gateway, for it was far too close to the enemy and thus ultimately too dangerous. Though the prince considered his dearest friend an able warrior, he was far too important to the survival of Gondor to so recklessly place himself in peril. Aragorn had an uncanny ability to surmount the most unbelievably dismal of odds. More than once in their long friendship had Legolas witnessed his friend evade a certain demise, escaping the unescapable as if courting death were an easy, simple matter. Defying fate as he had in Moria, at Helm's Deep, and during Pelennor Fields, seemed to be a natural gift. Even though Aragorn carried with him all the advantages good fortune ensured, one day his luck would abandon him. Legolas could not bear the thought of his friend being struck down by a wayward arrow or unfortunate turn of combat. Destiny often forsook those too comfortable in their stations.

But there was no more time to ponder the merits of Aragorn's seemingly indestructible and desirable providence. His swift feet had carried him to the Gateway. Hundreds of soldiers stood in the wide street, bearing bows and arrows, swords and shields. They were silent, still, and the Elf could sense their trepidation as whispered orders ebbed and flowed along the waves of men. They parted for him, seeing his advance and shooting hopeful looks in his direction. Legolas felt great unease as he caught their sidelong glances. These soldiers were imploring him to do something to rectify this situation, to prevent war or somehow stop the Easterlings from besieging the Gateway. His heart ached; if only it were so simple! Men still, even in this Fourth Age, regarded Elves as mystical beings capable of great feats of magic. Legolas knew better. Whatever was in motion now was beyond his will to change.

He reached a cluster of men near the foot of the massive gate tower. Faramir turned at his approach. The run had taken more of Legolas' endurance than he had originally anticipated, and he hunched over a bit, struggling to catch his rushing breath. The steward did not miss the Elf's weakness, and now his gaze was hard upon his friend, analyzing the archer's uncharacteristically bent and pained figure. Legolas' face was still quite pale, and he felt a bit shakey. He imagined he looked rather unkempt, and for an Elf of his stature that was most unsual and unbecoming. Annoyed with himself, he straightened his back and leveled his shoulders. An unspoken question lingered on Faramir's thin lips. Gray eyes glowed in stern disquiet, but Legolas shook his head to brush aside the steward's worries. Concern over his health was better placed at another time. There was far too much at stake to allow such matters to cloud their minds.

"The night is too dark," said Éomer softly. The young king of Rohan's face was tense, and his voice dripped in anger. "There is neither moon nor stars. Our archers will be greatly hindered without light by which to take aim."

"As will theirs," returned Faramir softly. "At least we hold high ground. The Gateway will afford us a great advantage." Legolas observed his friend shift his weight from foot to foot. It was quite obvious that Faramir was also hampered by his wound, for he could not hold a steady posture. The Elf narrowed his eyes. The steward could not be allowed to join the archers upon the wall. He certainly could not maintain an archer's poise given his sore shoulder, and if he faltered it would be disasterous. "Our archers will thin their host."

"Will the wall hold them?" Éomer asked, his hazel eyes glinting as he glanced about the circle of lords and commanders.

Gimli gripped the shaft of his axe so tightly that the leather of his gloves crackled and creaked with the strain. "If they intend to besiege us, all they need to do is prepare the proper equipment and even the greatest of walls will eventually buckle."

"Nonsense!" barked Irehadde. The Dúnadan's glare was leveled upon the Dwarf, vicious and threatening. Clearly he considered even the slightest hint at Gondor's fallibility quite an insult. He commanded a fair portion of the standing army, so his faith in his defenses was not surprising. "This wall has never fallen. No enemy has ever breached the Gateway!"

A low, disgusted growl rumbled quietly from Gimli, and Legolas nearly smiled despite the seriousness of the situation. "We must better determine the strength of their forces," Aragorn declared firmly. "Ignorance will best us this eve if we are not careful." The king turned abruptly and strided quickly to the darkened stairs that climbed the great stone wall. He called up to the top of the ramparts, "Bear they tools to besiege the gates?"

Silence prevailed for a moment, leaving those below motionless with tense anxiety. Eventually a baritone yell offered a rather noncommittal and apologetic answer. "We cannot tell, my Lord!" Aragorn's lean face tightened in annoyance. "It is far too dark. They carry not even torches to light their paths!"

Before the man even finished his report Aragorn was bounding up the steps. A chorus of respectful reprimands and pleas rang from the group of men, but the king was ignoring their requests for him to stay safely hidden. Legolas was quick to act, stepping through the crowd of soldiers and lords and following Aragorn up the stairs, his slender body stepping lightly and rapidly.

At the top a wide, wooden platform had been built into the wall. It stretched along the parapet's massive length, providing a protected place for men to crouch while defending the Gateway. Presently lines upon lines of archers were pressed flush to the rise of the wall, kneeling to hide themselves from the scouting eyes of the enemy. Legolas ducked and gracefully followed Aragorn. The two friends pushed their way to the wall and then leaned against it.

Aragorn's breath was a puff of vapor before thin lips. "What can you see?" asked the king in Elvish.

Legolas traded his bow to his left hand and inched closer to the wall. Where the eyes of mortals would fail, his would not. He turned a bit and looked out into the field.

The soldier had been true to his word. Before Minas Tirith was a great expanse of black. Though the city itself shed a bit of light, the moon and stars were veiled overhead by wispy clouds of midnight and navy blue. One would have naturally expected to see bobbing torches litter the field like stars twinkling upon a sea, but there was nothing of the sort. The veil of dark and deep shadow did much to obscure the senses of men. But Legolas saw many lines of restless and shifting forms. Waves upon waves of armored infantry stretched into the distance. They were still some distance from the Gateway itself. The Elf narrowed his eyes. The army was not moving. "They have stopped," he whispered to Aragorn, sweeping his vigilant gaze across the scene. "They wait in the fields, perhaps half a league south of the Gateway." Great dark blobs stood tall in the rear, and the prince watched them carefully. At first their nature eluded his meticulous eyes, for they were very still. It seemed possible that they were some type of structures constructed for defeating the wall, but it made little sense to keep such vital equipment so distant from the front lines. One moved, its great hulking mass tipping a bit, and a long, narrow limb lifted from the ground. There was a distant bleet. Surprise rattled through Legolas. "These are not Easterlings," breathed the Elf.

At first Aragorn did not answer. Then the king shifted, rolling a bit and leaning into Legolas. Together they peered over the wall. "Are you certain?" Aragorn demanded, his rough tone betraying his shock and doubt.

Legolas swept his eyes to the front of the immobile legion. Though the light was faint, he could still identify the red flags whipping about in the wind. A quick glance confirmed his suspicions. "Quite," he answered. "Those standards… the snake upon them is inverted. And those large animals in the distance are Mûmakil. Easterlings use no such beasts." It was one of the few facts of which they were sure, as they had been able to confirm it through observation in battle and study of the creatures. The men of South Harad were nomads of sorts, and the great, hulking creatures served as their transportation. Something about the drier climes of the southern locale benefited the oliphaunts, and rarely did they leave the agreeable conditions of their habitats. Only one group of men had learned to tame the vicious, colossal animals.

Aragorn released a slow breath. "Southrons."

"Aye." The two friends held each other's eyes, but there was no reassurance to be had.

The mystery grew deeper, the knotted mess of truth and doubt tighter and more difficult to unravel. The puzzle was tricky and ambiguous. It seemed a sticky bog of fear and violence, and with each moment, with each confusing twist, they only sank deeper into the mire.

Before they had a second to even begin to understand the implications, motion upon the fields drew Legolas' alert attention. The Elf ripped around, watching intently as a group of figures upon horses broke from the front of the unmoving army. Long streamers of red and gold billowed in the wind as they neared the Gateway. The thunder of hoofbeats echoed against the wall. "A company approaches," hissed the Elf.

A few minutes passed in silence. Legolas traced their movements in the night. He could not discern their intentions. He counted roughly ten men in the party, and it appeared to him to be some sort of retinue. But he could detect no lord upon a horse, since the men rode in no obvious formation. He could not imagine an escort leaving their charge so vulnerable. Aragorn's eyes were following Legolas' gaze, but in the darkness one form blended into the next. The king tarried in word and act, waiting for his Elven comrade to deliver some hint as to the appropriate response.

Eventually the noise of their advance alerted the archers upon the wall. "Take aim!" hollered one of the company commanders, and the swish of arrows being pulled free from quivers and fixed to bowstrings resounded.

Legolas squinted. He felt Aragorn tense beside him, and the king's patience was obviously near depletion. The Elf strained his senses, desperately trying to determine whether the rapidly approaching riders meant harm. The heads of the horses were now visible, jets of vapor shooting from their muzzles. The rider's faces were covered in dark wraps of some sort. The Elf's eyes fell to their hips. They bore no swords. Neither did they carry arrows, bows, or lances. "They are unarmed," Legolas said.

That was all Aragorn needed in order to make his decision. "Hold your fire!"

A hushed mutter of shock rolled up and down the wall. The archers glanced amongst themselves, hesitation and fear dancing in their eyes. Clearly they did not understand their lord's reasons, but they lowered their weapons all the same.

Silence reigned over the wall's occupants, and each man held his breath. Aragorn pressed his back to the wall, huddled close to Legolas. The Elf could feel the man's heart thunder. "What say you, my friend?" Aragorn's trepidation made the normally melodic sound of Sindarin sound rushed and throaty. Imploring eyes fell to the prince's still form. "What is their intent?"

"They slow outside the wall." Legolas leaned back, turning to meet Aragorn's incredulous gaze. "I think they mean to speak with us."

Aragorn's face crumpled in confusion and dismay. Yet, as Legolas predicted, there came a loud shout from the ground below. "Men of Gondor!" The words rang through the still air, and not a soul shifted or breathed upon the ramparts. The deep baritone voice continued. "We ride forth bearing neither arms nor malice! We entreat your peace. Our lord seeks an audience with the king and nothing more!"

Could it be possible? The Elf and man held still, wondering at the echoes of the man's voice. Legolas grasped tighter the grip of his bow and looked to Aragorn. Suspicion filled his eyes. "Perhaps we ought not trust this," he whispered to his comrade. "They are clever, Aragorn, and the most cunning of lies are those surrounded with hope and good intentions."

The man called again, "We seek not to attack this city but join with it in a common defense! Please, we must see the king!"

The decision was one of unbelievable import. What they chose here, in this pivotal moment, would shape the course of the future. Not for the first time since this nightmare had begun did Legolas wish himself an Elf of foresight. It was so powerful and mighty a gift. How could they so blindly lay the foundations of their own fate? To trust or not, to believe or not… To live. Could they afford to have faith in those seemingly ludicrous and unfounded statements of truce?

On the other hand, could they afford not to?

Legolas did not envy Aragorn this decision. In his own mind the options clattered and warred with one another, and emotion and exhaustion made a mess of his logic. Here again he faulted himself; he had not the mettle of a king or a commander. The weakness of his will allowed this battle of doubt and dismay to wreak havoc, and he could not see clearly the best course of action. That foreboding crawled over him, aching in his wounded side, sickening his already riled stomach, pounding in his throbbing head. So close was the disquiet to his heart that it seemed to have become part of his very spirit. Never did it leave him. Never did it quiet its shrill, plaintive cries.  _Nothing is as it seems. Nothing!_

But he was so muddled with fatigue and rampant worry that even he could not believe such placating nonsense. He was growing so frustrated with these incessant sinister premonitions that he could no longer put much stock in them. Perhaps they were just the product of his weak disposition and unease as a leader. Perhaps they were simply borne of many nights spent awake and wondering. In any case, he was hardly equipped to make such a tremendous choice, and he was infinitely glad at that moment that he could defer to Aragorn's judgement.

The distant glaze that had come over Aragorn's eyes faded quickly. He grasped Legolas' knee firmly before turning and stealthily making his way back towards the stairs. The Elf gritted his teeth, unsure of how he felt about this. He grabbed the arm of the commander beside him and pulled the man over and up a bit, so they could both see clearly over the top of the parapet. "Do you see that dark line in the southern plains?" He gestured to the edge of the army, which to the man he was certain appeared little more than a ridge between two shades of black. The frazzled archer swallowed uncomfortably and nodded mutely. "Have your men watch it. Should there be movement, take aim and sound the alarm."

"Yes, sir!" answered the commander, and a whispered relay of the order went down the lines of archers. It was not much in the way of defense, but it was all they could do. It would take a few minutes to open the massive Gateway, and they could take no chances. If the army started to move towards the city as the doors parted, they would at least be ready.

Then the Elf smoothly vaulted down the stairs. He heard arguing below him. Already the gate guards were moving towards the massive cranks to open the doors. Legolas leapt gracefully to the ground, growing impatient with the number of steps between himself and the huddle of men. He landed soundlessly.

"This is folly, my Lord!" gasped Irehadde. Wild eyes flashed in the night, burning in fear and hope that he might somehow change his king's mind. "We cannot invite them into our city!"

Aragorn breathed a slow sigh, glancing around at his companions. "These men appear to owe nationality to South Harad," he explained, sharing a brief look with Legolas. Éomer glanced at Imrahil in surprise. Gimli was not at all eased by the announcement. "They offer words of peace, and I cannot in good conscience disregard that. There are different factions of Haradrim. Long have we known that."

"You suggest that this force is not the one responsible for Cair Andros and Linhir?" asked Éomer. "Is such an assumption wise?"

Aragorn did not answer, but the torn look shining in his eyes was response enough. Imrahil lowered his gaze. His gray eyes were narrowed threateningly as he distantly looked to the ground. "And so the plot thickens," he muttered darkly.

They were silent for a moment. Gimli grunted. "We follow your lead, Aragorn." The Dwarf's words were heartening, even if his tone and his dark, tense scowl were not. Éomer nodded firmly, his jaw set, and the young king of Rohan looked about their group for further confirmation of the sentiment. Faramir's face was vehement and strong despite its tired pallor. Imrahil lifted his gaze. His hand closed about the hilt of his sword and he curtly bobbed his head. His dislike for the idea of fraternizing with these men was clear, but he would not forsake his king despite his disapproval. Even Irehadde, whose face was baleful and vengeful with the thought of allowing the enemy to so easily enter Minas Tirith, offered his king a resolute look. All would band together behind their liege.

Aragorn clasped Gimli gratefully on the shoulder, and Dwarf locked his own hand about the man's forearm momentarily. They separated, and Irehadde called loudly, "Open the Gateway!"

The echo of the order slammed into Legolas. The Elf stiffened, holding his bow to his chest. Skillfull fingers lightly traced the length of the string, testing it subconsciously for weaknesses. His eyes centered upon the gates as they slowly began to open. A great roaring shook the buildings as the massively stone doors were pulled apart. The sound of men gasping as they handled the big cranks was barely audible. They moved so slowly, so the aching moments passed with excruciating lethargy. Did time not realize the fear and anxiety preventing their breaths, the agony of worry dizzying their minds, the strain of hope beating in their chests?

The Gateway finally rumbled open. On its other side the company of Haradrim waited patiently. Guards immediately stretched across the entrance, barring them from going further. There were ten mounted men, each bearing a dark-colored wrap of cloth about their faces. Only their eyes were visible. "I must ask that you leave any weapons you carry here," spoke the leader of Gondor's gate regiment, "or else I shall permit you no further passage."

One of the men dismounted his black steed. When his feet struck the ground, they did so heavily, and plumes of dust fell from his abundant clothing. "We are not armed," he said. Legolas recognized the voice from earlier. This was the man who had announced their coming. Dirty fingers undid the protective cloth from his head, and let the swatches fall to blend with the rippling cloth of his cloak. A simple face was revealed. It was of a brown hue, through whether form natural tone or dirt Legolas could not tell. Full lips were framed by a bushy beard. His eyes were dark and piercing. He bore an expression that rarely seemed lighted by mirth or joy. "I am Ulpheth, Captain of the Emperor's Guard. His Excellency requests an audience with the King of Gondor."

 _The Emperor…_  A hushed murmur of surprise went through the troops stationed at the gate. The Elf felt his pulse quicken. Gimli glanced up at him, but Legolas' attention was centered upon a dark rider seated high upon a tall, brown horse. The figure's face was hidden in shadows, but Legolas felt a strange sense of power, of confidence. So palpable was this aura that the Elf nearly wavered.

Aragorn stepped free from the crowd of his officers and advisers. "I am King Elessar," he spoke simply. His voice lacked any sort of amity and wrath, the tone calm and void of emotion. "What would you have of me?"

The shrouded figure languidly dismounted his horse and began to approach, carefully unwrapping the cloth from his face. His stride was long and powerful, purposeful without being rushed. He stepped into the yellow torchlight. He was a tall man, his body lithe and well-muscled, and he carried himself with careful poise. Each motion was stylishly and carefully executed with apparently the greatest of ease. He wore a stately tunic of black and gold that glittered as he moved. A red cloak billowed like a trail of crimson behind him. Long dark hair fell from a high, regal brow, the brown locks coiled into a thick braid. His face was flawless and smooth, the skin clean-shaven and unblemished. Full lips were pulled into a taut expression of gravity. His black eyes seemed to envelope everything at once, missing nothing in an unintrusive sweep of all present. He was quite handsome, and each glance, each breath, each blink or the most minute of twitches seemed of the utmost grace and import.

He stopped before Aragorn. "Only your support, my Lord," he answered. His voice was strong, the sort that seemed made to deliver orders and inspire followers. He tipped forward slightly, bowing languidly. "I am Emperor Holis, liege of the Haradrim."

Aragorn narrowed his eyes. Legolas watched the emotions play within the gray orbs. Though the ranger was masterful at hiding his thoughts, long years in his company had attuned the Elf to the most diminutive of signs. "You will have to excuse my suspicions, Lord Emperor," said Aragorn slowly, "but I shall need a bit more of an explanation."

Holis gave a bit of a pleasant, understanding grin. "Of course, my Lord. I am well aware of your losses, and I assure you that I am not alone in expressing my condolences. My people have grieved deeply for those this nation has lost."

The words sounded heart-felt, though they surprised everyone present. Aragorn nodded, clearly trying to reserve his judgment. Holis continued, the smile disappearing from his face. A frown tightened his lips and anger creased his brow. His black eyes glinted. "And I must apologize as well. I admit I am at fault for these attacks, though it shames me deeply to admit it. Long before it came to this I was remiss in informing you of the threat to your nation."

"Then inform us now, if you would be so kind," Aragorn responded. His tone was mellow, but carefully it concealed his mistrust and venomous rage.

They were silent a moment. The two lords held each other's gaze for a seeming eternity, as if gauging strengths and weaknesses, intentions and hopes, lies and truths. Legolas watched intently, his interest piqued at this silent war of wills, trying to decipher the meaning of this man's sudden arrival. Finally, Holis averted his gaze humbly, as if in submission to a greater man's power. Aragorn's face remained impassive, his posture erect and regal. Legolas darted a questioning look at Faramir, and the steward gave a small shake of his head.

"Given the urgency of the situation, I will be brief. Though it greatly stabs at my pride to admit so heinous a shortcoming, I must. My people are in a state of war. After you granted the Haradrim pardon, many of the tribes truly abandoned our ancient grudge with this nation. You must understand, my Lord, many of us did  _not_  serve the Dark Lord willingly. It was a common plight to all the Haradrim, for since we lived so close to Sauron's black lands, we were unable to withstand the stinking reach of his evil. How he has warped our thoughts, our hopes, our fates!"

Gimli glared furiously at Holis with all the restraint of a rockslide. "That is hardly an excuse," he growled, accusation dripping from his words.

Holis looked to the Dwarf. Legolas expected to see him redden with anger. But his face was stoic, and his eyes empty. "I do not offer it as one," he explained gently. "Nor do I ask for your forgiveness. We Haradrim are a proud kind, and we do not hide behind rationalizations or pleas for leniency. The past is black indeed, but it is not solely of our making. We carry the burden of our mistakes. We do not try to hide or shun it. To do so would dishonor you, King Elessar, and ourselves as well." Gimli's expression softened with what his Elven friend assumed to be humility. Holis turned his gaze upon Aragorn again. "Many of my people wished for nothing but peace. However, as you well know, those that make their home in East Harad garner quite a vicious dispostion. I believe you call them 'Easterlings', yes?"

"We do," answered Aragorn.

Holis nodded solemnly. Anger flitted across his face. "Despite your absolution of our past crimes, their hate refused to die. I believe Sauron's black magic worked upon them in ways that could not be undone. Unrest spread in our outmost settlements. We had erected a new government after the fall of Barad-dûr, and these men did not agree with it. No matter of negotiation could ease their abhorrence of peace, it seemed. They festered in the east for more than a year, building their forces, and before my people could defend themselves, they attacked us. Since then we have been at war with them. Until recently, I believed we were finally earning our victory." Holis' expression became a glower of anger and grief. "Of late they have developed a… new tactic. They have splintered into smaller cells and factions that attack on many fronts. They plunder villages, raze homes, and slaughter innocents. When aid is sent, they lay in wait and ambush." Legolas grew tense and thought of Cair Andros. It was the same disturbing and gruesome tale. Fleeting images of burning buildings and bodies sent chills racing up and down his back. "Oft they will leave just one person alive to regale to the rescuers the horror of their brutality." Legolas looked directly at the emperor. His eyes flashed in fury.  _Fethra._

Aragorn had obviously come to a similar conclusion. He clenched his jaw. "Why have you had such difficulty controlling these men?" asked the king.

Holis' eyes shone in disgust. "We have tried, my Lord. They honor no rules of engagement! They disregard dignity and respect! They do much to spite us, King Elessar, and it infuriates me that we have become so hapless in the face of their cruelty. They are cunning and vindictive. They travel quickly and leave no trail to follow. They rape and pillage and mark their conquests with my own standard!" The man's voice rose in pitch, and it was obvious he was struggling to contain his wrath. There was a pause in his rant as he sought his composure. In a blink the hurt and malice was gone from his eyes, and a placid expression returned to his striking face. "These men have brought my Empire to civil war. I refuse to stand idly and allow them to terrorize and traumatize my nation any longer."

The resolution was somehow encouraging. Faramir settled questioning eyes upon Holis. "What is it you want from Gondor?" he asked. Skepticism laced his words, and his gaze was tight and doubtful.

Holis released a slow breath and turned. For eyes so depthless and dark, his gaze was piercing. This he settled upon Faramir. Something had crawled into the fathomless orbs, some glint that was base and perhaps disconcerting, but Legolas could not pinpoint its nature. "You have seen the destruction, Steward," quietly announced the emperor.

Alarm flashed in Faramir's eyes. Anger was quick to follow. "How would you know such?"

"Surely you do not think that we are blind to your movements," explained Holis. "As you have your informants, we have ours." Something akin to condescension slipped into the man's melodic voice. Perhaps one less diligent might have missed it. Legolas slipped his fingers down his bowstring, gripping the arc of the weapon tightly in anger.

Holis did not miss his small movement. Suddenly the emperor's gaze was upon the Elf. They stood still, bright blue eyes upon orbs of midnight. Time slowed until it was still, and there was naught but the strength of this man's will contesting his own. Legolas stood tall, but inside a great maelstrom of bizarre fear swirled and churned within him. He felt oddly weak and queasy, as though some dark, malevolent force was reaching forth to caress his spirit. This grasping attempt to control him felt strangely familiar. Into those black depths he looked, and he saw nothing, nothing save cold ambition. Ambition. A will to dominate. And then it made shocking sense. This was not so different than the alluring call the One Ring had projected to any and all. For many days and nights had he listened to its insane melodies and whispers, to its vile promises. As he had stood watch over the sleeping Fellowship, it had plagued him, tempting him with powers unending. As an Elf he had not been immune to its call, though his personal detesting of all things black and sinister had granted him strength enough to keep its seductive whispers at bay. Others of the Fellowship had not been so endowed.

Yet this was quieter and less insistent. And it was less of an undeniable evil and more of a faint whisper of a threat. There was no blaring heat, no black touch, no battering force against his will. A simple caress, like a cold kiss to pressed to warm lips. In fact, so subtle was its touch upon him that he began to doubt almost instantly that there was any malevolence at all. Another fault of his damnable imagination, surely!

Then Holis looked away briefly, releasing Legolas from his stare. The Elf did not avert his hard glare. Once again this man allowed his defeat, and the prince could not help but ponder why. "Prince Legolas, son of Thranduil," announced Holis. The emperor returned his gaze to the archer, but all hint of his ire before had disappeared in a blink. His quick eyes scanned the Elf before him. Legolas was not impressed. His expression remained taut with annoyance and suspicion. "You will have to excuse my curiosity. I have so rarely encountered one of the Firstborn, and with your kind's departure from these shores, it seems the time to satiate my interests is rapidly disappearing."

The Elf cocked an eyebrow at the remark. "Not so rapidly, Emperor," returned the archer coolly.

Holis was incensed by the retort; his nostrils flared ever so slightly and his eyes flashed. But he restrained himself, only offering a small smile and a nod. "But of course, my prince. I did not mean to imply you no longer belong among men. We shall need the skill of the Elves to defeat this insurrection." His tone was soft and unimposing.

Remorse unwittingly flooded over Legolas. In the mysterious man's eyes now was a glint of apology and regret. So quickly did Holis' emotions change; the Elf wondered vaguely how much his own fatigue was affecting his senses. The hard expression slid from his fair face. "We stand beside Gondor."

They locked gazes again. Gone was the glint of conceited ambition. Gone was the moment of domination. Now there was naught but hopeful yearning, but grief and resolve. "And will Gondor stand beside Harad?" asked Holis. He turned to look upon Aragorn.

Aragorn glanced between the strange emperor and his most trusted ally. He was briefly quiet, and the area was void of any sound at all as the men waited for this most important of answers. Then the king set his jaw. "What do you suggest, Emperor?"

Holis' face was now calm, displaying only tranquility and seriousness. Legolas wondered if any of this was true, if this man could be so talented an actor. It was impossible to detect what he really thought, what he felt. "I propose an allegiance. I know not why our dissidents have suddenly turned their wrath upon your nation, King Elessar. Yet surely we can mutually benefit from an alliance between our forces. We can help you protect your cities. We know the enemy's movements. We understand their strengths and weaknesses. And in return for such information, Gondor will aid us in dispatching this revolt and uniting again the Haradrim under one banner."

"An alliance?" repeated Éomer. His eyes were wide and his voice incredulous.

The emperor's face betrayed nothing, but his eyes twinkled in hopeful sincerity. "Surely you see the merits in such a pact," he said. The words were wistful and a bit surprised that what he so clearly seemed to perceive as good might be less than favorable to the Lords of Gondor.

Aragorn glanced to Faramir. The motion was quick, but Legolas noted Faramir's torn eyes and expression. It mirrored the king's own. Silence slinked by, oily and decidedly awkward. Finally Aragorn released a slow breath. "You must allow me some time to consider this," he said. The rigidity of his tone permitted no question.

Nodding, the emperor conceded. "Of course. I would not ask otherwise of you. My informants have slipped into one the camps of the Easterlings. On the morrow I expect news from them. Let us convene again at that time. I trust that is acceptable?"

Aragorn nodded. "Aye."

Holis seemed relieved at the king's agreement. He stepped closer. His hand came from the red folds of his cloak and he grasped the other's shoulder. Aragorn stood tall, but Legolas saw the distrust in his eyes, the doubt. The physical contact was not welcomed. "I pray this will begin an era of peace between our two peoples. Much blood has been shed in the past, and hatred and anger has long divided us. Too long have my people served Sauron's will, slaves to his ambition. Now we oblige only our own hopes. Let us stand now, together, and face the dawn of this new age. The glory of Gondor and Harad unite under a common purpose."

Aragorn lifted his chin. "That is my wish as well," declared the king in a soft, calm voice.

The tanned fingers squeezed the king's shoulder firmly. "Then by the blood of my people, it shall be so." He released Aragorn and turned, his cloak swishing loudly as he walked. He exuded strength and serenity in each light step. "We shall guard your city this night. I doubt our foe would be so presumptuous as to attack with such a heightened defense, but the Easterlings have proved on numerous occasions that they are naught if not brazen."

"I thank you, Emperor," said Aragorn. Holis nodded. He kept his eyes ahead as he departed the group of lords, but when he passed Legolas he stopped.

The man regarded him with those empty eyes. The Elf found it most unsettling. "Perhaps one day you would be so inclined to tolerate my interest in Elves, my prince. War and leadership afford me little time to pursue my studies, and I am so intrigued by your race. I should much like to visit Ithilien." The man reached up and took Legolas' hand from the arc of his long bow. Legolas barely resisted the urge to recoil and pull away, tensing his form in anticipation. Holis turned over his hand and then ran the tips of his fingers along his palm. The man's touch was surprisingly warm, but it somehow felt rough and harsh against the Elf's skin. The touch swept over the archer's fingers. Holis' eyes narrowed as he closely inspected Legolas' hand. "Immortality is such a gift, and one that no simple force can mar or destroy," he said softly, awefully. "An expert archer for centuries, yet not a single callus upon his hands. Flawless. Infallible. Beautiful. Ageless and gifted with strength beyond measure. All the powers conjured by destiny, by the very will of the world, draw you away from our sides. And yet here you are. Unmoving and unchangeable." The man exhaled slowly, reverently. The two were still with the eyes of the entire crowd upon them. Standing stiffly was all Legolas could do to control the twisting of his stomach and the itching of his skin. The scrutiny was overwhelming.

Then Holis released Legolas' hand, and the Elf dropped it to his side. "We are fortunate such amazing creatures guide us upon our limited journey through life. I thank you, my Lord, that you hold the weak hearts of mortals in such high esteem."

 _What does he mean by all this?_  Legolas could not determine Holis' intentions, but out of decorum he nodded. The man turned then, leaving the Elf feeling disturbed and confused. The ghost of the touch tickled his palm, and he squeezed tight his hand into a fist, seeking to scratch away the remainder of the haunting sensation. The prince's mind fell into a swampy gloom of shaken confusion.  _Surely it was no threat… There was such reverence and interest in his voice! I do not understand!_

The Emperor mounted his horse in one swift motion. Ulpheth looked to the lords before pulling himself atop his steed as well. Holis grabbed the reins of his mount and pulled the animal around. "Until tomorrow, King Elessar." With one last sweeping look over the men assembled, he kicked his horse into a gallop. The others of the company followed, their black eyes void of all emotion. Vacant. Soulless.

The thunder of horses' hooves grew distant as the emperor and his retinue exited. The men of Gondor stared out the open gate until they melted into the shadows. Silence. Stillness. A great vacuous and hungry abyss grew of their restless spirits, demanding a greater resolution, a fuller understanding.

But the night was empty, asking nothing, offering nothing. There were no answers to be had.


	11. In the Late Hours

For a long time nobody spoke. An ominous silence dominated the moment, infallible, unbreakable. The quiet stretched to eternity, and no one had the audacity to end it with trite words. What could be said, at any rate? Nothing could bring to them the sort of completion they each desired. Nothing could show them the path upon which they must walk or the correct decision to make. They had expected war, but they had been left with something far less concrete and infinitely more deadly.

Now they were forced to make their own future.

The realization was heavy, oppressive, and each man from the highest lord to the lowest soldier understood its repercussions. Gondor stood now at a great and mysterious crossroads. There was fog all round her, soupy and thick, obscuring sight and leaving the soul shriveling in dismay. There was a path that could lead to victory. More, perhaps many more, would lead to defeat. There were some that promised true alliance, friendship, and protection in battle. Others offered naught but desolation. And the road they would walk, the decision they would inevitably make, was covered in this clinging mist of suspicion and doubt. Only in hindsight would they know the correctness of their selection. Only when all was said and done would they see through the miasma and know the truth. Such a thought was not encouraging.

Aragorn spoke, taking command of the situation. The words sounded incredibly loud. "Please close the Gateway." The orders did not need to be relayed, for everyone present could hear them clearly so deep was this silence. The gate guards scrambled to their posts. Soon after, the ground rumbled and the massive doors slowly began to swing shut.

The long moment of uncertainty and silence, during which even Aragorn had seemed to falter, was over. The king turned, his face hard and his eyes stony. To the group of captains gathered he said quickly, "I want eyes fixed upon that army at all times. Have the archers guard the wall in shifts. If there is any movement that seems unusual, anything at all, report it to me."

The men snapped to attention. "Yes, sir!" they barked, saluting their king. Then they moved to make certain what Aragorn requested was done speedily and without error.

Legolas watched the soldiers rush about. The line of troops stationed behind the wall broke their formation, surprise and a bit of disappointment upon their faces. A low hum of voice and motion filled the once stagnant air. There was a sudden buzz of energy, of activity, and with that returned anger and uncertainty. It matched the Elf's mood rather well. He stood stiffly, his body itching to fight these waves of nauseating unease claiming him. He clenched and unclenched his fist. That touch, that lingering caress… so feathery light, yet heavy in all its veiled implications. Even digging his fingernails into his palm could not rid his skin of the haunting stroke of the man's hand upon his own. He felt inexplicably dirty. Tensing the muscles of his back and legs was all he could do to suppress the shudder tickling his spine.

"Thoughts?" Aragorn's voice drew Legolas' attention. The king watched him, and in those gray eyes was a storm. Concern spread over the man's face as he appraised Legolas with a suddenly worried gaze. Clearly Aragorn as well was unnerved by Holis' bizarre actions toward the archer. Disguised in interest, something deeper had driven the emperor in his inappropriate behavior. Legolas' face was pale and his eyes were a bit glazed, and he knew the others would see he was more riled by it all than he would show or admit. Thankfully, Aragorn did not address it. There were more pressing matters, at any rate.

Aragorn glanced around those assembled. All of them were a bit ashen-faced and starkly silent. "Speak freely," he grunted, a hint of annoyance lacing his tone, "for there is no time."

"I do not trust him, my Liege," came Irehadde's gruff voice. It was the obvious thought. His eyes blazed. "They come with no evidence, no proof to support these claims of civil unrest–"

Faramir shook his head. "He is an emperor, my Lord, the leader of his kind. He might think his word proof enough, as we do King Elessar's," he interrupted logically. Legolas tore himself from his distraught thoughts and looked to his friend. Faramir's face was white, and his eyes were tight in pain and exhaustion. Sweat was beading on his temples. He looked feverish and terribly fatigued.

Irehadde's face grew tight with disgust and dislike. "So you believe his statements?"

The steward released a slow breath and swallowed uncomfortably, as though battling dizziness. "I am merely seeking to remind the king that Holis perhaps came forth believing his sincerity to be sufficient evidence." He clenched his jaw. Legolas watched the muscles of his lean face flex with the motion. Faramir's eyes narrowed darkly. The steward was an analytical thinker. Legolas had learned well from their many discussions over Ithilien's reconstruction that the son of Denethor cherished a good puzzle, eagerly grasping any challenge to his sharp mind and agile wit. He took great faith in his own logic, and he was very good at piecing apart the most convoluted and ambiguous of problems. Now he seemed greatly vexed, frustrated that what he sought to understand was just out of his mind's reach. "But in answer to your question, no, I do not believe them, at least not wholly."

"What do you mean?" Éomer prompted. Inquiring hazel eyes centered upon his brother-in-law.

Faramir looked up. "Surely he seemed sincere about the unrest in Harad. There was conviction in his voice, and a great deal of grief and self-loathing over his own inability to handle his nation's difficulties. It is no easy act for a people so proud to come before their most hated enemy and propose an alliance." He glanced to Legolas. The Elf held his knowing gaze. "Yet there is something more to this, something darker and deeper. I… I cannot say more of it."

Irehadde gave an irritated grunt. "Suspicious premonitions, my Lord Steward, and nothing more!"

Faramir bridled quite visibly. Would this Dúnadan ever learn to control his lame tongue? Gimli quickly leapt to Faramir's defense. "Do not speak ill of the Steward's 'premonitions'. He is no want-wit when it comes to these sorts of matters, and I for one am greatly inclined to believe him." The stout Dwarf turned his gaze upon Aragorn. "Holis hides something, Aragorn. For every moment of sincerity came another of something… depraved. The way he acted towards the Elf…"

All grew silent and looked to the archer. Legolas fought the urge to shift uncomfortably under their questioning stares. Irehadde's was riddled with unspoken accusation, and he did not appreciate the sentiment. It seemed he could remain quiet no longer. "To say it did not disturb me would be a lie," announced Legolas softly. "I cannot explain it."

"What do the Elves know of the Easterlings?" asked Éomer. The King of Rohan was caught between his doubt and hope for a peaceful resolution. His voice held no heat for his Elven comrade.

Legolas released a slow, silent breath and shook his head. "Very little, I am afraid. The Emperor spoke truly of that at least. Mirkwood never had any dealings with the Haradrim. To my knowledge, neither did Imladris or Lothlórien. Admittedly, my first encounter with them was at Pelennor Fields." He grew frustrated at his own inability to supply useful information. Though the Easterlings made a home of the lands southeast of Mirkwood, they were distant enough that the Woodland Realm had never engaged with them. How or why Holis knew so much of him was not easily explained. Legolas was aware that his name had been known by the enemy during the war, but this was more than that.

"Surely more than simple interest drove his actions towards you," Imrahil declared. "It was almost unnatural."

"Do you think they intend to attack Ithilien?" Éomer asked suddenly, his voice anxious.

Faramir responded with, "I doubt they mean to attack any of our territories, at least not right now. As I said before, I believe this Emperor Holis to be true to his word. He needs this alliance to strengthen his nation. Furthermore, why come and supply us with this proposal if they only mean to betray it?"

"To distract us?" Gimli suggested.

"Nay," responded the steward. "It is not their way. As Holis said, they prefer to gloat their brutalities. There was enough hate in his voice to make me believe he spoke truly of the Easterling's deceptions." The steward lifted his eyes. "I worry, though, for he is a strange sort. He seeks to dominate, that much is clear. Perhaps it is only the ambition of any leader, but it struck me as particularly overbearing. He knows too much of us and our people, and he is more than simply proud of it. He flaunted it. He is arrogant." A hard edge came to Faramir's voice, and Legolas remembered the vicious, conceited look that had crawled into Holis' eyes as he had spoke to the steward. Then the anger released Faramir's face, and he sagged a bit. A shaking hand came to his forehead. "Forgive me. My mind escapes me."

Imrahil's brow creased in concern. "You are weary, Faramir. Do not exert yourself so."

"It is no bother to me," said Faramir softly, directing a weary gaze to Aragorn. "I am needed here." But his actions betrayed his words. His eyes slipped shut, and whatever color remained upon his cheeks was utterly sucked away, leaving him terribly pale. A breath later he fell, his knees abruptly refusing to support his weight any longer.

"Faramir!" cried Aragorn, but Legolas was faster. The Elf darted forward and caught Faramir in his arms as the ranger tipped towards the ground. Legolas gritted his teeth and silently cursed his wounded side, dismissing the pain and gently dropping to the ground, supporting Faramir's leaden body in his embrace.

Aragorn was at his side that instant. Legolas crouched, holding Faramir against his chest, lifting his head. He shared a panicked glance with his friend before Aragorn laid his strong hand against Faramir's brow. The king dipped his ear close to the steward's chest. A great crowd was forming around them, the eyes of many wide in surprise and worry as they beheld the scene. Aragorn sighed softly. "He has merely fainted." The king's steady fingers went to the clasps of Faramir's tunic, undoing them quickly. He pulled the folds of cloth away from the steward's injured shoulder, revealing white linens. Some were dotted with dried blood.

Gimli grunted from over Legolas' shoulder. "That fool! I told him his injury was no simple matter! I bade him to rest!" He gave a gruff  _humph_  that spoke loudly of his concerned annoyance. Legolas heard the guilt his short companion sought to hide. "For so sharp a man, he certainly is quite ignorant of the obvious at times! Fool ranger!"

"Easy, Master Dwarf," said Éomer. He laid a comforting hand atop the riled Gimli's shoulder. "I doubt he will ever again so easily disregard such sound advice."

Gimli seemed content with Éomer's affirmation. Men were rushing forth; they had brought a litter without order. The crowd parted for their passage. As they approached, Faramir groaned and turned his head away from Legolas' chest. His eyelashes fluttered against his skin and he drew a deep breath.

Aragorn grasped the fallen ranger's face between his palms. "Faramir?" he said softly.

Weakly Faramir opened his eyes. The gray orbs were misted in hazy confusion and pain. He groaned and let his eyes slip shut again. "Please, Aragorn," he moaned softly, "tell me that I did  _not_  just faint."

Aragorn shared a small smile with Legolas. But the mirth faded quickly from his worried face. "Let us take you back to the Citadel," the king declared, laying his hand upon Faramir's brow. "You run no fever, but I fear the poison has weakened you more than I anticipated. You should not have come down to the Gateway, my friend."

Faramir grunted. He struggled to sit up, pulling away from the Elf's supportive grasp. "Fie, my Lord, I am well." He brushed off their offers of assistance. Still, when he tried to stand again, he faltered, falling back into Legolas' arms. He moaned tiredly, his eyes dazed with pain, drops of sweat rolling down his pale visage.

Éomer helped the men carry in the gurney. "Come now, my brother," ushered he, motioning toward the litter. "You need rest, if not for your own sake, then for ours. I wish not to face the wrath of my sister upset." His hazel eyes twinkled in warmth, and though the words were spoken in jest, his concern for Faramir was no laughing matter. Faramir opened his mouth to protest further, for being carried to the Citadel in a litter was obviously a blow to his pride. But Éomer smiled slyly. "Be silent. There shall be no more argument over the matter."

Faramir nodded weakly in submission and his eyes slipped tiredly shut. He allowed Legolas and Aragorn to settle him into the gurney. The king drew a blanket that had been given to him by one of the servants up and over Faramir's shivering form. "Take him to Lady Éowyn," he ordered to the party. "Inform her that I shall be there shortly to ensure the Steward's comfort." The soldier nodded. The littered was lifted and quickly they left.

Aragorn sighed slowly. Though fatigue registered in his eyes, his voice was stern and powerful as he began to relay orders. "We have no choice but to wait until more becomes clear to us. Have riders dispatched to Emyn Arnen and South Ithilien." He glanced to Legolas, perhaps a bit apologetically, but certainly worriedly. "Both settlements must be evacuated. Whether or not the Haradrim mean to attack these regions, none can say, and I am unwilling to risk so many innocent lives."

"We shall have to prepare the city to receive so many refugees, my Lord," mused one of Aragorn's advisers.

"Do whatever is necessary. I want every gate reinforced. Everything must be kept on high alert. I do not want to think that the Haradrim mean us harm, but we cannot afford to be anything less than cautious. I call to each of you to ready your forces. We cannot know what lies ahead of us, but whatever fate has decreed for Gondor, we must be prepared to face it."

A chorus of agreement answered the king's instructions. "I must tend to the Steward. Until the morrow, then." Aragorn's eyes swept the group, and his words were met with nods. For a moment he stared at Legolas. The Elf was favoring his left side again, standing a little less than erect for his chest would permit no such position. Aragorn stepped to him and grasped both his shoulders. Gray eyes stared deeply into bright blue for a moment, and they spoke without words. Encouraged, the prince offered his friend a bit of a grin. Aragorn returned the gesture. Then the king stepped past him and, with attendants and soldiers in tow, began to walk briskly back to the Citadel.

The remainder of the group stood in silence. Legolas closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could hear his heart beating loudly. The sound felt alien for its volume. There was a mixture of conversation then. Beregond approaching, running towards the Gate, inquiring about the news that his lord and charge fell. Éomer explaining that Faramir was well, that he had only momentarily lost his senses and that he was being taken to the Citadel. Beregond stammering, explaining that he had had to take leadership of the Citadel Guard since their commander had been killed in the assassination attempt. The other lords debating and discussing the evening's unsettling events. The hum of noise grew distant, hollow. He felt nauseous again, bile burning the back of his throat.

Gimli's hand reached up to grab the crook of his elbow. "Elf," spoke the Dwarf. Legolas opened his eyes and looked at his companion. "I do not suppose that you, too, will faint on me. You seem quite stricken."

Shocked, Legolas did not have a response. Was he that transparent? Was his weakness that obvious? He did not wish to be a burden upon anyone! Surely this wound was simply slow to heal. Given enough time, it would trouble him no longer. He was sure of it! Still, alarm caused his heart to race.  _This paranoia… I am not myself._  Those black eyes. That faint touch. He shivered.

"Elf?" He opened his mouth to stammer an answer, but Gimli's deadpan expression dissolved into a grin. He chuckled. "Such a horrified look on your face! What a laugh! Legolas, son of Thranduil, prince of Eryn Lasgalen and Lord of Ithilien… hero of the War of the Ring, fainting dead away at my feet! Ah, but life is rarely so fair. How I would have liked to hold such an embarrassment over your head. For all the times you have vexed me would I but this once see  _you_  so embarrassed! That would be far more priceless than all the gold in Erebor."

It was only a joke. Still, it had served to shake Legolas, and he was barely able to hide it. He only grinned feebly and nodded. Gimli seemed to sense his jest had an ill effect on his friend, for his smile slid away from his ruddy face. He shivered a bit as the cold night air settled upon them. "Come, Legolas, let us return to the warmth of our rooms. Waiting and staring at the gate will not make morning come any faster."

He allowed Gimli to lead him away from the Gateway. But even as he did, he could not shake this strange sickness. It was afflicting more than his fatigued body, he realized. It seemed to be reaching its poisonous torment into his very soul.

* * *

Minutes became hours. Legolas rubbed his eyes. He sat upon his bed in his room, a plate of food resting not far from him. His back was braced against the ornately carved, wooden headboard, and he was glad for its support. The mysterious attack he had suffered earlier that evening had left him riddled with dull aches and pains of the sort he had never before experienced. It seemed to have sucked from him his endurance as well, for his eyes kept stubbornly slipping shut. Perhaps tonight he would finally be able to sleep. The hope nearly made him giddy with anticipation.

Fethra sat happily in his lap. She was munching on a bit of cheese. According to Éowyn, the child had refused to eat until Legolas returned. She had spent the evening with the White Lady of Rohan and her attendants, and Fethra seemed to have finally accepted Éowyn as a friend. After Faramir had arrived, Éowyn's attentions left the little girl, and she had momentarily been placed into the Queen's care. Legolas had spent a moment assuring himself of Faramir's well-being and thanking Éowyn for caring for Fethra in his absence. She had responded with a small smile and a gentle nod, and then had gracefully shifted her doting to her prone husband sleeping in the grand bed of their quarters.

From there he had acquired the little girl from the Queen. Arwen had been glad to see him, for, as she had somewhat heatedly explained, she had been pent up inside the royal quarters for the better part of the day. The Guards permitted her little in the way of travel about the Citadel, and though she was typically very complacent, she had not appreciated their assertive inhibition of her activities. She had immediately noticed his pallor and withdrawn appearance, but he had said little to her concerns, simply brushing them aside, too tired and worn to lie about it. He felt wretched now for avoiding her questions and making short their meeting, but he had been unable to stand her imploring, loving eyes pore over every bit of his tired body and shredded spirit. He had just grabbed Fethra and given Arwen a soft kiss before departing, seeking sanctuary from the wondering eyes of others.

And after a short detour to the kitchen, he had fled to his room. It was a much needed release. Too many eyes had been watching him this evening. Before Fethra, he did not need to pretend he was not distraught. Before the child, the stoic mask could fall away. She would not care if he hurt, if he was weary, if he was disturbed.

"Eat, Leglass!" cried the girl, giving him piece of cheese from the plate. "Eat!"

He laughed lightly. "I am really not hungry, Fethra. I told you before." That was the truth of it, at least. His stomach had not quite settled from earlier, and he did not dare fill it with anything when he might later come to regret eating. The thought of food at once nauseated and enticed him.

She tugged on his hair, wrapping the golden strands in her small fists. "Momma always said to eat when you're sad. It makes you feel better." Her green eyes were wide and imploring.

Legolas released a slow breath into the top of her head. "Who says I am sad, little one?"

"I do." She lifted the cheese to his lips. "You look sad."

His abdomen and side clenched in dull, fiery agony, but he only obliged her, slowly eating the piece of cheese. It had no taste to him. She smiled, pleased with herself, before grabbing a bit of fruit from the plate and offering it to him. They did not speak further for a long while, the distressed Elf allowing the small child to feed him. It was perhaps comical, but Legolas felt no inclination to laugh. Instead he was glad for Fethra's innocent ministrations. He treasured the simple weight of her body, the smell of her hair and her skin, the heat of her form against his cold self.

Finally, the child asked, "Why are you so sad, Leglass?"

The question took him aback because he did not know how to answer it. His mind raced lethargically, swirling with a pained responsibility to somehow respond to her naïve interrogative. It seemed a trite question, borne only of her love for him and her unhappiness at seeing him distraught. But how does one explain war to a child? How does one make a creature so young and pure understand all that happened and what still might? It was so complicated, so terrible and burdensome, that he wished with all his might that there might be some simple answer to her question. His fatigued mind could conjure forth no such panacea, so he spoke without thinking. "Many people have died, Fethra."

"Like Momma?" the child whispered.

"Yes," Legolas admitted softly. He pulled her tightly to him. "Many more might. All of Gondor is in danger."

She leaned her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. "But you'll protect them, won't you? Like you protect me?" There was such innocence in her voice. To her the matter was achingly simple. He was infallible. He would defend them all.

He pressed his lips to the mess of her hair. "I will try," he promised.

Quiet came to the room. Fethra nuzzled closer to his chest, pushing her cheek through the folds of his undershirt to rest it against the warm flesh of his breast. Legolas' eyes began to slip stubbornly shut again, his head pulsing tiredly with too many unanswered questions and unresolved tensions. Far too tired to sort through the tangled knot of emotion and thought, he let go of his aches, of his fears, of his grief. Through the mess came a comforting oblivion. It beckoned to him, and he was just about to relinquish his hold upon wakefulness when a giggle pulled him back to a groggy awareness. "Your heart's beating, Leglass."

He smiled but did not open his eyes. "That is good, Fethra."

Then she pulled away and sat up on his lap. Tiredly he abandoned the call of sleep to watch her jiggle up and down, veritably bouncing. "Play with me!" she demanded in a squeal, tugging his hands and clothes.

The Elf grimaced inwardly; truly he should have known better. Though it seemed to have been days since he had gone to the vaults below the Tower of Ecthelion, it was only a few short hours ago. Fethra had taken a nap while he had read and researched, which unfortunately explained her energy now. Selfishness stormed through his head, forcing him to speak words he knew would do little to deflate the child. "I am tired, little one. You have played all evening."

She climbed up, standing in his lap, her foot smacking rather unceremoniously into his tender side. Legolas hissed and moaned, pulling her forcefully to his right to relieve the pressure upon the sore area. Almost instantaneously she realized she had caused him pain, and her eyes filled with shameful tears. Swallowing his discomfort, he forced a smile unto his lips. "It is alright. You did not hurt me," he lied, regaining his breath.

Her chin quivered. "You won't leave me like Momma, right?"

The thought terrified him as much as it did her. "Of course not," he gasped. He took her face in his hands, his thumbs wiping the tears as they escaped from her frightened eyes. "I will never leave you. I promise you." The gravity of his own words hurt somehow. They tasted sour, although he could not be sure if the foul sensation was due to them or to the queasiness plaguing him. But he only smiled, wishing to comfort her and tired of his own wretched thoughts. "I am tired, sweet one. We cannot play now. Shall I tell you a story instead?"

Wide eyes glistened brightly a moment in the golden light of the fireplace. Then she nodded silently and laid her head against his chest again. He wove his fingers through her hair and gently smoothed out the curls as he began to speak. "Many, many years ago, there was a little wood Elf. He was a mischievous child, and he lived in a big kingdom of Elves. His father was the king of all the elves of the forests, and his mother was their queen."

"Did that make him a prince?" asked Fethra.

He smiled. "Yes, it did. But he had many older brothers, which meant that he would never become king."

"Why not?"

"Elves live forever," explained Legolas patiently. He gave her a mock look of irritation. "I told you this before, remember? Because the little Elf had so many older brothers and they would never grow old and die, ruling the kingdom would never come to him." She nodded her understanding, her thumb once again finding its way into her mouth. Legolas pulled her hand away. "So the Elf did not care to study or to learn how to be a king. His father loved him dearly, but the king was also very busy with the kingdom. The little Elf did not understand, though, and he thought his father did not care about him. He was left to his own devices mostly, and he loved to play and to explore." Fethra reached for another bit of fruit and put that in her mouth instead.

"One day the little Elf was supposed to have his bath, only he very much wanted to go outside and play. He had managed to avoid his bath for many hours. His mother told him, 'You must be clean, little Elf. No prince should be this dirty!' But the little Elf was watching the squirrels in the trees outside, and he wanted to be with them. He loved the trees very much."

"Why?"

The Elf's brow furrowed in confusion. "Why what?"

"Why did the little Elf like trees? Trees are boring. Not like horses or dogs or cats! They just stand there!"

Legolas laughed, trying to figure out a way to explain to her the connection Elves had with all of Middle Earth and the splendor of its forests. "Well, Fethra, wood Elves have… a special bond with trees. They are as much brothers and sisters as kin. But this particular little Elf loved the woods more than most of his kind. His father had named him after the forests of their kingdom. And the trees cherished him in return for his affection."

"That's silly, Leglass!" cried Fethra. She giggled, her chubby face scrunched in her laughter. "Trees can't love people!"

He hugged her close and dipped his face close to hers. "Of course they can," he whispered, smiling broadly. "You just have to know how to hear them. Sometimes, if you stand very, very still and listen very, very hard, you can hear them speak to each other." Her face lit up in joy. "The wind rustles the leaves, and then they sing."

She laughed. "Did the little Elf hear the trees sing?"

"Every day of his life," responded Legolas. "Now the little Elf slipped outside while his mother was readying his bath. He was quite the little brat, this child, and sneaky, too. He went out into the courtyards of his father's palace where he loved to play. He loved the squirrels, because they always paid attention to him, even when his parents were too busy. The squirrels were squawking at him, inviting him to come up and play with them, so he climbed the tree. He had done this many times in the past, so he was not afraid. In fact, this little Elf was not afraid of anything. He did not care for being a prince, nor did he care for baths or study or sleep. But he did care about adventure, and climbing was quite an adventure to him." She watched him speak, her eyes rapt and attentive. "Once he thought he had reached the squirrels, they had only gone higher. So the little Elf, being quite foolish, climbed higher and higher after him. He kept going up and up. This was a very tall tree, and he was really high before he realized it."

"What did he do?" asked Fethra softly.

"He was frightened," Legolas responded equally as quietly. "He could not see the ground, and the squirrels had abandoned him. He started to cry, but he did not think anyone could hear him. Eventually he thought that climbing down from so high would be just as easy as it had been to climb up. But he was shaking, so scared he was, and he fell."

Fethra's eyes were wide. "Did he get hurt?"

"No. His mother had called his father, and his father was a mighty Elf that was very strong and could move very fast. His father caught him before he hit the ground."

"Then what happened, Leglass?"

The archer sighed gently, his eyes distant. "Well, the king was quite cross with the little Elf. The little Elf was very ashamed of what he had done, mostly because he made his father so mad at him. He cried because he had frightened his father and because his father was so angry with him. His father had been afraid too, Fethra, afraid that his son might die." Legolas released a slow breath. "He thought now more than ever his father hated him. Later, when the little Elf had had his bath, he was very tired and his mother was putting him to bed. He was still sad, so his mother sang to him. And when she had finished her lullaby, she said to him, 'Even a prince has a father, and even a king has a son.'

"After that, he tried to become a good prince. He took his baths, did his studies, and honored what he was. He did not try to escape to the squirrels anymore. He knew now that his father loved him very much. And he never forgot what his mother had said to him, even to this day."

It was silent a moment. Legolas could not help but wonder what had made him think of this particular memory. Vividly he recalled the boom of his father's voice after falling from the tree, the smell of the soapy bath water, the taste of his own salty tears, the cool, soft caress of his mother's elegant hand upon his head. He had thought he would never win his father's affection again after that incident. But he had been about as wise as he was obedient, and his father was quick to forgive. That very night Thranduil had come into his youngest son's room as his mother had sung his piteously sobbing form to sleep. Though the king had said nothing, Legolas now knew that that had been his father's way of expressing his love. A different time came to him.  _"My son."_  The words were clear and vivid to him, as if only yesterday they had been spoken.  _"I can see it in your eyes. You yearn for the sea. It will tear you asunder if you ignore it, and you will suffer pain like nothing you have ever known. Please! You are all I have left of your mother. Do not do this to her memory, to me, or to yourself. You must come to the West with us. Our kingdom is fading, and our time is over. You have already given far too much of yourself to the world of mortals. They do not deserve your life. If you stay, you will die!"_

"Leglass?"

These were his father's parting words, spoken the night before all that remained of his family had sailed for the Undying Lands without him. Slowly they faded. He looked down, shaking away the anger. Shaking away the grief. The pain. "What?"

He felt tears seep into the cloth of his tunic. "I miss Momma. Do you think she misses me?"

He squeezed her tightly against him. "Of course," he answered resolutely.

"How do you know?" she whispered, gazing up at him with watery eyes. In those green orbs was such a desperate wish for him to somehow take away her pain.

He sighed gently and resumed stroking her hair. "I lost my mother, too," he declared quietly, holding her gaze, "a long time ago."

"But Elves can't die."

"Sometimes they do, little one," he corrected forlornly. His voice was laden with sorrow then, and he hated himself for such a wanton display of his grief, grief that should have been tempered by the long years of his life between this moment and his mother's death. But he tumbled on, unwilling to hold this within him. "I was younger, then. A dark time had come to our forests, and my father did not take well to her death. He did not come out of his room for many, many days. My siblings were much older than me, and they grieved without much care for me. When I was alone, I always told myself that no matter how badly I missed her, she could never be sad again. All she would know is happiness, and that made me happy. She would not have wanted me to be so sad, and so I stopped." He lifted Fethra up then and set her so that she faced him. He smiled. "Now let us talk of something else. I am with you now, and I love you. That is what matters."

He tickled her, and she gasped her laughter. The sound was joyous, easing his pain and helping him forget the past. They spent the rest of the evening comfortable in each other's presence. Fethra lay with him on the bed, listening as he sang of Elves and the Valar. He told her a softened version of a valiant quest undertaken by a brave Hobbit and his friends to destroy an item of great evil. He spoke of happier times, of grand heroes and epic adventures. Eventually she fell asleep, lulled by the magic of his gentle voice.

Legolas shifted a bit. The exhaustion came quickly back to him. Knowing that Fethra slumbered peacefully eased him tremendously, and that weariness called to him again, allowing him to shun the pressures of the world. He swam through memory and thought, reaching towards the enticing emptiness sleep promised. He was so very tired… It seemed ages had passed since he had last found peace. Sleep…

Someone knocked at his door.

 _Curse this all!_  Attention snapped into place, dashing the void, and Legolas came to awareness once more. Fury coursed over him, igniting every hurt into a renewed throb with a fiery passion. He groaned his anger, wishing with every ounce of his exhausted being that whoever had come to disturb his peace would simply vanish and leave him be. But the knocking came again, insisting that he rise and see what business was so terribly important.

Legolas grasped his hurting shoulder after he gingerly untangled himself from Fethra. Grabbing the burning candle from the bedside table, he stood, and the world spun about his panging head. Clumsily he went to the door, trying hard to summon some sort of composure to calm his riled nerves and return grace to his step. Unlocking the door, he grasped the cold knob and pulled it open.

Surprise washed him cold. "Velathir?"

The dark-haired Elf nodded slowly. His gentle face was wide and apologetic. "I am sorry if I disturbed you, my Lord," he declared softly. Legolas opened the door wider, stepping a bit into the hall. The stone was cold beneath his bare feet. "We have only just arrived from Ithilien, and I wished to inform you that all is well. I received your orders from Lord Valandil, and all the preparations have been made."

Irritation coursed through the Elf prince. Velathir had woken him for such mundane news? Surely that could have waited until morning! But he kept his ire from his voice. "Good," he answered, struggling to maintain his equanimity. "Is there anything else?"

The Elf smiled weakly. "I have brought you a bit of tea. Lord Aragorn informed me you suffered a small wound, and I hoped this would ease any discomfort you might have." The timid aide offered his lord a saucer. Upon it rested a cup filled with steaming liquid. Legolas received the beverage, feeling a bit ashamed of his anger. "I also retrieved this from a page that was seeking you. He said you had left it in the meeting hall." Now the long, pale fingers held forward a dark, rectangular object.

Legolas' face furrowed in confusion momentarily, and then memory slammed back into his slowed mind. It was the book he had found in the vaults.  _Stupid,_  seethed his conscience.  _Can you not think of anything with any amount of clarity?_  The book had completely fled his head; he had utterly forgotten about it. Sheepishly he took it from Velathir with his other hand, nodding. A small, embarrassed grin twisted his lips. "Thank you, Velathir. I am glad you have come."

The other Elf smiled genuinely. "As am I, my Lord. Good night."

"Good night."

Legolas then closed the door and locked it behind him. He stood still a moment, feeling suddenly disgusted by sleep. He set the candle down on the desk that furnished his room and he sat in its stiff chair. The wavering golden light spread over the book. His eye caught the inscription on the cover.  _Palantiri._  It seemed so long ago he had had those random ideas about the seeing stones that now it all was frivolous to him.

He stared at the book blankly, taking a sip of the tea. It was sweet, a bit too sweet for his tastes, but he had noticed of late that Velathir had been brewing tea of this flavor. It felt good to his throat, soothing his aching body and head as its heat trickled deep inside him. He had drunken almost all of it before he noticed.

His fingers swept over the cover of the book. He pondered it for quite some time, the light of the candle caressing his face in yellows, glimmering in his eyes like liquid fire. Was the idea truly so foolish? He thought back to the boy that had died, to those desperate words said to him upon a fading breath. Much had happened since then even if only a matter of hours had passed, and his concerns about the  _palantíri_  seemed less founded now than they had then.

The Elf prince sat there for quite some time. The tea had settled his stomach and eased the ache in his head. His eyelids grew droopy, sliding down of their own volition, and he found himself pillowing his head upon his folded arms. The bed seemed too far away, and sleep was rapidly taking him. He did not fight it, slipping into the quiet.

There came a knock at his door. Again.

A harsh, hissed curse fled his lips as he angrily stood. His side immediately tightened in angry protest to the sudden movement, but he ignored it, too enflamed by this second disturbance to bother. He grabbed the door, unlocked it, and yanked it open, a flurry of less than pleasant comments pushing insistently up his throat.

He said none of them. The wrathful glare dropped from his face almost immediately.

Aragorn smiled shamefacedly, his form shrouded in shadows. They did not speak for a moment, watching each other and wondering at the other's appearance. Worry creased Aragorn's brow, adding years to his handsome face. "Are you well?" he asked in Elvish. "You look most… rattled."

Legolas sighed gently and stepped aside a bit, allowing Aragorn entrance. "Of course," he asked simply. A sly smile came to his face despite his previously foul temperament. "It is possible to startle an Elf, Aragorn. You of all people should know that."

Aragorn was not accepting this lame excuse, and Legolas knew it immediately. "Perhaps. But you are not just any Elf, Legolas. Something troubles you."

Irritation bubbled inside the Elf prince, both at the ridiculous statement of the blatantly obvious and at Aragorn's broaching of the topic. This confrontation was the exact thing he had labored to avoid all evening. In a hushed tone, so as not to wake the sleeping Fethra, he brushed aside the comment. "You mean to say you came here simply to assure yourself of my well-being?" He folded his arms across his chest.

Aragorn closed the door behind him. "Aye," he said. His face was deathly serious for a moment longer, and then he averted his eyes and grinned weakly. "Well, that in addition to the fact that I could not sleep."

Legolas' ire faded slightly, and he smiled knowingly. He had discovered during their many hunts and voyages into the wilderness that his friend was an incredibly light-sleeper. Legolas himself had rarely rested, taking a constant watch over their small camps. Aragorn was quite fitful in slumber, twisting and turning, and he would often awaken at the slightest noise. He did not envy Arwen her position; spending each night in the same bed with the man was a punishment he would wish on no one. "So the truth rears its ugly head," murmured the Elf. "Would you care to divulge to me what so disturbs your rest?"

The jest was a welcome ray of light in the dark morass of their turmoil. Aragorn grinned weakly. "I will," he began, "if you would be so kind as to reveal your troubles as well."

Legolas stiffened. The exchange irritated him anew, and he turned. They were quiet then, the emptiness painful and riddled with uncertainty and hurt. Their friendship hardly shielded either of them from the battering of their anguish upon their hearts. Aragorn finally neared Legolas and placed his hand upon the Elf's shoulder. "Then let us not speak of your troubles, Legolas. I would not be so brash as to pry into your privacy. Just know that I am here to listen, should you wish it."

The Elf grew frustrated with himself and pivoted to face his devoted friend. "Nay, Aragorn, I am acting childishly. I am sorry." He sighed, feeling his form sag tiredly. He did not have the strength any longer to appear composed and above this all. "I am greatly worried. My mind is plagued by many things, not the least of which is this war approaching. Something sinister looms before us. I see Fethra," he said, looking to the bed, "and my world melts in fury and grief. I am worried for her. What kind of life can she lead now, without siblings or parents? Without a home and scarred by the horrors she has seen? I do not want to see more children left as messages of the Easterlings' brutality!"

He looked down and went on, the words coming quickly as though they had suddenly become a poison he desperately needed to expel. "I am worried for the colony, for what this conflict will mean for the Elves. I try to have strength, but all I can hear is my father pleading that I join my family in Valinor. I think of Tathar, and my soul shrivels in guilt and fear that I am selfishly condemning many more Elves to the same fate and denying them a place among our kin beyond these shores. I am worried for Faramir. How many more may fall as he nearly did? I am worried for you and the choices you must make. I am worried for Gondor, that it so recently has won peace to only now have it snatched from its fingers once more." The Elf sighed. His breath was quivering. He felt a sob push its way up his throat. "Most of all," he whispered, closing his eyes, "I worry for myself, because I have not slept in many days. So many. I can find no peace."

Aragorn was still. Legolas blankly gazed ahead, waiting for his friend's reaction, praying for some sort of acceptance, of solace. For some remedy to his insomnia. Then the king squeezed his shoulder. "Do you dream, Legolas?" he inquired softly.

The Elf swallowed his pain, forcing the tears from his eyes. "Nay," he admitted, "not of late."

The simple touch of Aragorn's hand to Legolas' shoulder was a bridge, it seemed, a link between them that bound together the souls of brothers. Aragorn murmured, "I have dreamt. Over and over again I see the glory of Gondor before me. The vitality of my people is a beautiful thing. Black banners wave on a cool breeze. They fly over Minas Tirith, spirited on a fair wind, and they are so high, so aloft, so above anything and everything that nothing can reach them." There came a shaking sigh. "But now I see that they are not so high, that everything is not such a glamorous fantasy. There is death and violence in this world, and far too much of it. It makes my soul so black with fury and guilt. 'We destroyed the Dark Lord,' I think. 'Was it not enough? What more must we do? Have we not done enough?'" Anger crawled into his tone. "Why can we not have peace?" Legolas did not speak. His heart strained in quaking agony; how he wished he could offer his friend an answer! But there was no answer. Peace was untenable, unsustainable. His father had always believed that, and as much as he had never cared for the pessimism in his youth, maturity had bequeathed realism. "There is a path we must walk, and everyone looks to me to find it. I am a ranger, after all, and I have located many obscured trails through labyrinths of crags and thick brush and dense forests. But this path I cannot see. No matter how hard I try, I cannot see it! We fail, and the dream turns to nightmare. Those banners, drenched in blood, blow on a low wind that races through empty streets. Minas Tirith burns in my dreams. It burns! That wind reeks of burning flesh and ash. And then… I am the king of a damned nation, a failure of the people, the ruler of countless dead spirits and hapless bodies."

His harsh words echoed in the quiet room. Pounding and pressing, they slammed against them, bouncing off of walls that had no wish to hear such a dismal tale of their own destruction. "This is my dream, and I am terrified of it."

There it was. Their fears released, their grief vented. It poisoned the air, stinging their lungs as they breathed, filling them with doubt and dread. So black was the night, and there seemed to be no escape.

Legolas grew frustrated. "It will not be so." He turned around and held the man's gaze, forcing strength to his eyes and bravado into his voice. He set his jaw firmly. "We can fight this. Together, as we always have." His hand rose to clasp Aragorn on his shoulder. "I know we can."

Aragorn held his gaze for a bit, as drawing power from it to revitalize his doubting spirit. Legolas saw the question swirl in the other's eyes, and his heart pulsed in apprehension. The words spilled from Aragorn's lips. "What would you–"

The Elf cringed. "Do not ask me, Aragorn. I am a poor judge of matters of state. You know that." He hoped his father's refusal to instill princely mindsets into him would be enough to excuse him from answering Aragorn's inquiry. But the words sounded lame and weak, and deep inside he knew they would do little to dissuade his friend.

"I do not ask you as a prince. I ask you as my dearest friend, whose opinion I value greatly." Into the king's words had come a note of insistence. "Please, Legolas. What would you do?"

He opened his mouth to dismiss the inquiry again, but he realized the disservice he was ding them both. The silence became heavy, filled with Aragorn's anxious expectancy and his mounting sense of resignation, so he only closed his mouth and thought. Contemplation yielded little aside from the same infuriating questions and unsatisfying conclusions. Finally he sighed, averting his gaze to hide his displeasure and doubt. He turned to stare into the shadows. "I suppose I would trust them," he murmured. He did not like the way the words sounded, but he continued nonetheless. "We cannot afford to do otherwise."

There was no response. Legolas felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickle. In silence they lingered, wondering, waiting, wishing that all they feared would not come true. What he had said rested in the moment, hanging tantalizingly before him, spearing his heart with despair. How he wished Aragorn had not put him in such a position! Legolas clenched his fist. Anger merged with his grief, creating a monster that ate hungrily at his restraint. How dare he? How dare his friend presume to lay upon him choices that were not his own?

He felt as though he had been forced to lie, but he was not sure by whom or what. His friend? The truth? Logic? But he said nothing, swallowing his ire. It turned his stomach again, tasting bitter and drying his mouth. "How fares your wound?" Aragorn asked. The words were pitifully casual.

Legolas drew a shallow breath in an attempt to cast aside his resentment. Tears burned his eyes, and he was glad for the low light. "It is fine," he muttered. "Do not trouble yourself with it."

Silence. Aragorn knew him far too well to miss the antagonism littered about his curt words. "Have I offended you, my friend?"

It was a painfully simple question, but the hurt in the king's voice melted Legolas' anger. In a flash it was gone, leaving him weakened. Shame stabbed at his resolve. "No," whispered the stricken Elf. "Ai, Aragorn… I am so tired."

At first Aragorn did not respond. Then the king took his arm and forced him to turn about. They stared at one another. Aragorn took his hand then, lifting it between their chests. The king's eyes dropped. He dragged his fingertip along the length of Legolas' palm, and then each of his fingers spread widely, tracing the path of the Elf's long digits. Rough met smooth, age touched ageless. Legolas watched the languid action. "He saw the strength in this hand," the king softly said. "He felt it." His other hand came to grasp the archer's tightly. "But he knew your hand would never hold his as it does mine. I saw it in his eyes. He envied this. He envied me because of what I share with you." The king pulled him close and then embraced him tightly. Legolas closed his eyes, breathing deeply, finding his friend's warmth a great comfort to his battered body. "I stand strong because of you."

The fear momentarily faded in the heat of their friendship. Legolas sighed, willing to forget for however long the chance lasted. Still and peaceful, they stood. It was enough to at least ward away the demons of this night.

Then Aragorn leaned back. He smiled widely and patted Legolas' cheek gently before turning. "Sleep, Legolas. I will need your assistance in these coming days. Find peace in the child." A playful glint crept into Aragorn's eyes as he looked back. "She is quite attached to you. I would not have thought it. Shall I teach her her first bit of Sindarin,  _ada?_ " He stressed the final word quite purposefully.

Legolas steeled him with a mock glare and shook his head. "Is it not time you returned to bed, Aragorn? Arwen has had enough sleep, I suppose."

The king responded to his mischievous grin with a pathetic look of indignity. Then he chuckled, opening the door. Even he knew how terribly vexing his poor sleeping habits were. "Good night," he said.

"Good night, Aragorn." The king slipped outside, shutting the door behind him.

Silence.

A long breath. A whisper of hurt, of a tormented mind.

He was no longer tired.

He stood helplessly, fighting the burn of tears in his eyes. Rage and frustration pounded mercilessly at his restraint. He began to sway, buffeted by invisible waves of anguish, his body caught in a hapless torrent of insomnia. He remained as such until he could no longer tell the passage of time. Minutes. Hours, maybe. It mattered not. He could not calm his racing mind, his stress denying him the one thing he desired above all else.

A clenched whimper fled his lips. He opened his eyes and tensed his weary body, standing perfectly still. His eyes darted between the comfort of his bed and the book that lay idly upon his desk. Innocently it seemed to beckon to him, demanding his attention, pleading that he know its secrets. His mind came alive again, and a flurry of questions pierced his exhaustion. Energy rushed over his body inexplicably, and sleep disappeared into a storm of apathy. The seamless, fathomless oblivion finally gave up in its quest to capture him. It was hopeless.

Legolas padded softly to the desk. Reaching down, he laid his hand over the ingrained words.  _Palantiri_. He knew very little Adûnaic. It was not a tongue the scholars of Mirkwood thought of particular use to their students. The hour was late, and even if it were not, whom could he ask for help in translation? Faramir had once revealed to him over a friendly glass of wine that he held great interest in objects of lore and legend. Gandalf the Gray had taken the young steward under his proverbial wing, teaching him many useful skills and facts. Perhaps he would know these foreign words…

But it was very late, and Faramir was wounded. All the Citadel was likely to be asleep. There was nobody.

He sighed. He settled into the unforgiving chair, his body screaming in stiff protest. Tiredly he opened the book and began to read what he could. His numbed mind concentrated blearily on the words. He was the only one who could not sleep, who was plagued by waking nightmare. The only one chained to the darkness. A slave to minutes and hours, to days.

A prisoner of the everlasting night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ada_ – father (daddy)


	12. A World of Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I want to thank everyone who is reading this story. I really appreciate all of the support! :-D
> 
> This story now takes a turn for the dark (well, darker). I just want to put a warning on it upfront, so here it is. WARNING: this chapter contains depictions of torture and rape (not described in detail). Please be advised and read at your own discretion.

He was falling. Through a deep, endless void he tumbled, slamming at first through sight and sound, and then through blackness, through nothingness. For an eternity he went down, and he could neither breathe nor think to scream as he careened into the formless shadow. There was nothing in this abyss. A cold sense of utter solitude tormented his terrified heart, and his sluggish mind realized this was no calming lull of sleep. There was no peace, no comfort, no promise of rest or reprieve. He was rapidly slipping into a hungry emptiness, and he feared he was not dreaming.

Something snapped. There was terrible pain, spreading along his shoulders and ripping at his arms and wrists. Everything jerked violently, and suddenly he sucked in a long, shaking breath. Straining lungs quaked within him, hardly functioning from the agony spreading about him. He blinked. Once. Twice. His vision would not clear, and vaguely he knew the blurriness to be due to a well of unshed, stinging tears. Sensation slammed back into his body, leaving him reeling and disoriented. Where was he?

There was a horrific crack, and a terrible, jolting pain spread across his back. Jamming his teeth into his tongue was all he could do to stifle his cry of surprise. Reality slapped him cruelly and suddenly the haze lifted from his mind. The world was red. Bright crimson seeped into every crevice and corner, and he could not see clearly beyond its bloody shroud. Perhaps there were forms in the scarlet fog; barely could he perceive hints of moving shadows and the edges of inanimate objects. He squinted, his frantic eyes scanning about his surroundings. But there were no answers. He had no time to think of it further.

Pain sliced through him again, though this time it had struck his lower chest. He groaned and looked about frantically, struggling to catch his racing breath and calm his frenzied heart. Realization struck him harshly, and panic washed his body in hot waves of despair. How could this be? His mind tumbled and twisted, desperate to somehow rationalize the information his senses were supplying it. His hands were bound, it seemed, above his head. The cuff of metal manacles pinched and chafed his skin as he struggled. For his movements, he was rewarded with another blinding blast of pain across his exposed back.

_No._

He had to be dreaming!

_Where am I?_

There came a cruel laugh, and again something hard and unforgiving sliced into his skin. It was too heavy to be a whip, his paralyzed mind finally concluded, and it snapped with the sound of clanking metal. The length of a chain. It hit his side, and the links snapped around to bite and tear into the flesh of his stomach.

The shadowy forms took shape around him. Gleeful smiles. Black eyes. Monsters. Demons.

 _This is not real. It cannot be real! This is not real!_  Frantically he sought to escape, kicking ferociously and straining the length of his legs, praying that he might down his bare feet to the floor and relieve a bit of the terrible tension upon his shoulders and wrists. But there did not seem to be a floor. Frustrated and fearful, he resorted to lashing out at whatever harassing figure was closest to his helpless body. He could not touch them. He fought and fought, forcing strength into his horrified and hurting limbs, but for all the want of his anguished heart, he could do nothing!

The chain descended again and again, and the pain was blinding. He stiffened with each blow, struggling to simply overcome the shaking agony spreading from the deep gashes and cuts. Blood ran freely down his body, matting in his hair, dripping down his legs, splattering with a deafening hollow sound to the ground that did not exist. He tasted the bitterness, having bitten his tongue forcefully to stifle the screams building in his throat. The blazing agony melded with his pulsing heart, beating over his body like waves of the ocean upon the shore. Snap. Drip. Snap. His body shook and convulsed, barely enduring the endless torture. Thick red spilled down torn and ripped skin. His life's blood was fleeing him, and he was too weak to fight.  _Wake up,_  cried his desperate mind. The chain crashed against him, and he jerked, arching his back and quivering. If only he could part with this nightmare! If only he could parse dream from reality, lurid fear from peaceful truth! He had fallen through that black void. Surely there was a way to escape, to flee from this senseless torment!

Eventually he abandoned his terrified attempts to understand. The agony became too excruciating, and his hold on rational thought teetered. A muted throb of thought battered the confines his skull, beating him with panicked, animalistic passion, with a singular demand.  _Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!_  The chant pummeled him as did the chain, and he could withstand the violent insistence of neither.

Finally, it ceased. A choked sob escaped shaking lips, and it took his brutalized, confused mind a moment to realize he was the one who was wheezing so shallowly. He gasped hungrily for air, caring not that it smelled of sweat and his own blood. The red world devoured him, and he did naught but hang limply and fight for breath. His sense of self emerged again from the daze of quivering fear and pulsating agony.  _Fight this. It is in your mind. You are not here. Wake up!_

A hand came to touch his face. He snapped his eyes open, immediately recoiling. Whoever had so viciously been beating him refused him this tiny act of defiance, wrapping the coil of the chain about his pale neck tightly and forcing him to be still. The links tightened sadistically, squeezing and bruising his flesh, choking him.

"You have not screamed for me." The deep voice came from everywhere at once, from before him, behind him, within him. His flesh suddenly crawled with icy chills as the words touched him, languid in their caress. The hand slipped down his cheek, and a smooth thumb came to sweep over his closed lips. "Will you not cry your submission?"

But he said nothing. Though he stared and stared, he could not piece together the features of the face before him. Eyes. Nose. Mouth. But they were separate entities, as if defying the very purpose of their making and existing apart from each other. They formed no cohesive identity. But he had heard that tone before. He had seen those eyes. This was dreadfully familiar, and that terrified him to his very core.

The faceless demon leaned close to him, and he could feel the sickeningly sweet heat of the other's breath upon his cheek. "I will take what you will not give," came a whispered promise. The words were somehow both melodic and vicious. "You try to stand tall and proud before me, but you will not. No one will." The hand grasped his chin, and the gentle touch hideously morphed into a violent hold. He winced. "I will have you simply because I can. Does that frighten you?" Lips twisted into a smile. " _My_  words make the sun to rise and set and the winds to blow, and all things come into being because of what  _I_  decree. I see the purpose in creation, specifically the meaning of  _your_  existence. In this world, all things have their uses. Yours is to challenge  _me_."

His eyes widened. The monster was amused by his alarm. The smile grew wider, more confident and satisfied. "Do not doubt that I will break you. I will make you kneel before me and exclaim your acquiescence. You were made, and I shall unmake you."

"No," he whispered, horrified at the statements but unable to swallow his defiance. He did not understand, but hatred welled up within him hot enough to fuel his opposition. He could barely draw breath enough to speak, but he spat out his venomous retort all the same. "You have no such power!"

"Shh, my little creature." The lips caressed his. He jerked back in disgust. A hand wrapped in his hair and yanked cruelly, pulling back his head. Blankly his eyes stared into the bloody shadows above, looking frantically for some sort of escape. Every muscle in his body tensed in horrified anticipation. The evil slithered into his soul. Ice touched his heat, and he held his breath. That chilly mouth kissed the throbbing of his pulse in the white column of his neck. "Your heart beats. I can make it cease as Ilüvatar bade it to start." The touch was like poison to him, and he choked on his breath. "You cannot stop me. You are but a small thing, a weak creature caught in a place that no longer belongs to him, trapped in a world that cares not for his doting. You were torn between this place and the next, and you chose wrongly."

"That is not true!" he snapped angrily, finding strength in the blaze of his fury.

The grip on his hair relaxed, but he was not allowed to move of his own volition. Hand reached up from the shadows and took the sides of his face. "Ah, but it  _is_  true. Why do you linger? Do you think you may yet do good in this world that no more opens its embrace to you?" A cruel laugh cut through his resolve. "Silly and pathetic. I will give meaning to your now meaningless existence. You are mine. I have taken you. I will change what you thought unchangeable, touch…" A groping hand snaked its way between his legs. His eyes blazed in repulsed fury, but he could not wriggle away. "… what you believed untouchable. What would you offer me to release you from the torment of your sleepless nights? What would you give to me in return for your freedom?"

"Begone!" he cried. "This is but a dream!"

The demon laughed outright. The eyes were lifeless, soulless, but they somehow managed to glow in hungry, sadistic delight. "It is no dream," whispered the shadow. Eager lips took his own. He cried his shock and abhorrence, trying frantically to escape, but the chain tightened its strangling hold and he could do nothing. He shuddered as he was finally released, and he was left panting and reeling and fearfully realizing that this evil ran deeper and darker than he could fathom. "It is as I said. You are mine. And what you do not offer freely, I will take."

The demon was gone, slipping into the ruby mists, and the length of chain around his throat choked him. His vision blurred. He could not get the air into his lungs to scream as the pain came again. The flesh was flailed from his back. There was naught but agony, devastating, breath-taking agony, and a river of blood.

Fingers scraped over his skin. "Scream for me, my little creature."

He groaned his misery. Desperation drove him; he had nothing else left. "Please, do not…" he pleaded.

His clothing was ripped from him. Hands grabbed him. The grip turned cruel, and then pain like nothing else he had ever endured came to him. The chain tightened about his throat. He could not breathe. He could not! "Scream for me!"

_No. Please! Stop!_

The red shattered with the piercing cry of his torment. A merciless laugh followed.

_No!_

Legolas' eyes snapped open and he released a wrangled, gasping sob. He held very still, lost in a sea of panicked turmoil, afraid to even so much as twitch lest the pain return. The disorder of his senses was slow to right itself, feeding his terrifed mind a muddled collection of perceptions. Where was he? When was he?

The familiar appearance of the ceiling of his room filled his teary eyes. Something soft was beneath him, and he realized belatedly that he was no longer agonizingly suspended by his arms. He felt something wet and warm below him, but somehow through the clouds of pain and terror, he knew it to merely be sweat, not blood. Frantically his hands grabbed at his tunic, desperate to prove to his disbelieving and reeling mind that the fabric covered him. That he was dressed. The snap of the chain was gone, offering only the aftershocks of phantom pain as a token of its existence. There were no lips upon him, no hands touching him, no one behind him.

He was in his room. There were no demons. He was safe.

Powerful relief left him weeping and shivering. Legolas closed his eyes, horrific images and memories assailing him.  _Ai, what was that? What was that?_ His jumbled mind could make no sense of it. He felt every slick caress, every bite of metal into his flesh, every torture… the drip of his blood. The trauma was so real, so staggeringly vivid, that he nearly slipped back into it. His chest was heaving in his struggle for breath, his heart pounding madly. The whole of his body ached, and he felt terribly dirty. For a moment only could he question the fact that such a vicious and brutal thing had happened to him. Perhaps it had been a figment of his mind, a cruel illusion made from fear and exhaustion. Perhaps that gross paranoia had merely adopted a new form to molest him. Surely it could not have been real! Surely it had been a dream!

" _It is no dream."_

Legolas shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut against the memory.  _No! Make this not true! Please!_  He whimpered in utter despair. He wanted to curl tightly into himself and hide from the pain and humiliation, to disappear into darkness and never again show his face, to sink into the bed and hide. His body was leaden and unresponsive and escape would not be so easy. The terror was slow to recede, and when it did, it left such harrowing grief in its wake that he feared he might simply succumb to its strength and wither. He felt so weak, so violated. A dark vice squeezed his heart, and he could not breathe for the pain in his chest. How he wanted to die! The revolting ordeal tortured him still, flashing through his hapless mind again and again until he could barely stand its horrific details.  _How could I have been so weak? How could I have let that happen?_

_Please, someone… anyone! Make this not true!_

The bed abruptly shuddered and almost instantaneously a rough weight fell over his chest. Legolas gasped and opened his shocked eyes.

He saw red.  _Crack. Drip. Blood._

But it was only Fethra's pendant. It hung over his nose as she leaned over his face. Stunned, he watched the light of the rising sun catch the small gem, causing it to glow vibrantly. A moment passed in which he could do naught but stare at it, finding the swirl of ruby and crimson within it somehow peaceable. In its light he lost himself, its pulse of color inexplicably soothing his torn heart. He thought of nothing for this blessed instant, his mind suddenly numbed and senseless, and the apathy was a gentle balm to his wavering spirit.

She giggled from where she sat across his chest. "Is it wake up time, Leglass?" she asked cheerily.

The Elf swallowed, trying vehemently to wet his dry mouth enough to speak. This seemed so unreal, so impossible, that it was a difficult endeavor to simply rationalize the apparent safety of reality. She bounced up and down, watching him with a childish smile widely spanning her face. His side throbbed with her action, but he hardly felt it. "Wake up, Leglass! Wake up!" she cried shrilly, gaily. The sound hurt his aching head.

"I am up," he rasped. Had he truly been screaming? His voice sounded rough enough to convince him. It was alien to his ears. Like his tingling, throbbing body, it seemed not his own.

She obviously did not sense his duress, chatting happily about inane matters. Legolas sat up tenderly, irrationally fearing at any moment his body might just break apart, or that there might indeed be blood drooling from gashes upon his back, or that demons might leap from the shadows clinging to his room. These were ludicrous worries under normal conditions, but this was hardly ordinary, and he was traumatized and terrified.

The Elf drew a short breath at the stabbing pain in his side, subconsciously grasping Fethra's wriggling form and settling her into his lap as he tenderly swung his legs from the bed. He sat still a moment, glancing around in stupefaction. Dawn was just beginning to stream through open windows, and a cool, morning breeze ruffled the curtains. Splintered memories of the night before were slow to form a cohesive sequence, but eventually from the mist emerged the truth. He had tried to sleep. Then Velathir had come with the book and the tea. Legolas glanced to the desk. The wind rustled the pages of the open volume, sending them gently fluttering against invisible fingers. The empty teacup rested idly upon its saucer. Aragorn had appeared shortly after, and they had talked briefly. The conversation slowly came to him, the talk of worries and dreams and tentative alliances. Bidding his friend a good night, he had sat down to attempt to read the tome describing the  _palantíri_. What then? His mind drew a frustrating blank. Had he fallen asleep? Had he stumbled into bed?

Legolas clenched his fist, squeezing the rumpled sheets in his hand until his fingers ached, furious with the holes in his memory. Why could he not remember? He damned himself for this lapse. Had someone crept into his room? That held little logic, but he could not brush aside the idea. Certainly he could not have been taken captive, tortured so viciously, and… _No! Do not think it!_  His soul quaked, but he thundered onward with his reasoning. Was it feasible to think that he had been somehow kidnapped during the night and then returned without his remembering? No, it was not. He could not stifle a shudder as he painfully recalled the strength of the chain as it assaulted his back, as he remembered the amount of blood he had lost. The white linens of his bed were flawless, crisp and clean. A panicked hand reached around to touch his back. He felt naught but damp cloth. Yet this was not enough to appease him. He roughly set Fethra aside and stood quickly, lifting his tunic.

Shaking fingers pressed about his chest, searching for signs of the damage, of the bruises and the bloody lacerations. There was naught but the bandages wrapped around his wounded side and shoulder. He reached behind him, running probing fingers down his back. But he only felt warm, smooth skin. Then his desperate eyes turned to the shirt he held in his hands. He intently searched the fabric, but there was no blood, no sign that anything at all had happened to him.

But even this did not satisfy him. He stumbled to the door, his legs wobbling uncharacteristically, and grabbed the knob. It was unlocked. Had he secured it last night? He could not remember! He could not be sure of anything!

These thoughts swirled and swirled in his mind, ripping from him his sense of security, of power, of control. A cold wind burst into the room, and he shivered as it yanked at his limp hair, as its icy fingers touched his blazing skin.  _Ai, what has happened to me? I feel so lost, so afraid…_

"Leglass?" came a tentative whimper. He looked to the bed. Fethra had crawled to its edge. Her face was scrunched in tears and fright. "Leglass!"

Thought fled. He could not withstand the pummeling waves of his pain any more, and he stumbled to the bed beside her. She was in his arms a moment later, and he held her tightly, pressing her to his chest. She tangled her arms around his neck and sighed, contented by his nearness. Her scent flooded his nostrils, but even it could not blot out the stench of sex and blood that clung to him. Legolas closed his eyes, but the tears still escaped as he held her. His entire body shook in great waves of anguish. Still, somehow he managed to find his voice. "Shh," he whispered. "All is well. It will be alright. Shh."

The chilly breeze swept by them, taking with it his comforting words and leaving nothing but the pain.

* * *

The Citadel Guards stationed outside the king's quarters were quite surprised to see the Elf and the child rush up to them. The men exchanged puzzled glances, wondering at the prince's sudden appearance. Legolas imagined he looked rather unusual; he had barely straightened his clothing and hair before exiting his room, so driven was he by disgust and fear. There had been no other option to him; the incident hurt far too much to keep silent, and he had begun to wonder about its purpose. He did not have the poise at the moment to question himself about the decorum of what he was doing. He had but one choice.

"I must see King Elessar," he declared as calmly as he could. Fethra buried her face tighter into his neck, obviously greatly upset by his rushed and panicked actions.

One of the Guards stepped forward. His face was darkly bearded, and his eyes set in suspicion. "The king is accepting no visitors so early," he announced coldly.

The hurt welled up inside Legolas, driving him to anger. He had no patience to deal with this man and his prejudiced attempts to demean him. "It is urgent!" he snapped, his blue eyes icy. "Please, tell him I am here!" He was unable to keep the anger from his tone, and it was enough to drive the Guards into motion. He appeared before them utterly frantic, his eyes flashing wildly, his long, blond hair in disarray, his face pale. He had raised his voice to them, which was uncommon, as he was typically soft-spoken and calm. It was an unnerving and threatening sight.

One of the men slipped inside the double doors. The Elf stood stiffly while he waited, but inside his anxiety was eating hungrily at his resolve. Idly he considered the stupidity of the situation. Just the night before Aragorn had slipped unnoticed from his guards and visited him without so much as a single obstacle denying him from his destination. It had seemed a simple matter. Thus far, Legolas had had to convince a multitude of soldiers protecting each winding corridor and staircase of his good and important intentions. He had been stopped at every juncture and questioned. His bleeding heart could tolerate no more such delay or doubt in his character, and he felt his temper fraying. He did not deserve to be treated as an enemy.

Finally the soldier reappeared. "I am sorry to have denied you entrance. The king welcomes you."

Legolas offered no thanks as he charged by the astounded Guards. The door was held open for him, and he finally entered the king's chambers.

Arwen turned at his appearance. The Queen was dressed in a flowing, purple robe that shimmered as she moved. Her abundant hair was pinned back. She flashed him a radiant smile, but the gesture quickly disappeared when she noticed his pallor, his wild eyes, his blatantly obvious distress. "Legolas," she said softly, stepping to him. Her voice was full of worry. She took his face between her slender, cool hands, and her thumb brushed over the drying trails of his tears. He could not bear to look upon her, averting his eyes in devastating shame. The Elf prince felt horridly disgusting before her, as though her simple touch might spread the plague of his dark ordeal to her purity. "What is wrong?"

"Please, Arwen, can you look after Fethra for a moment?" The lump in his throat permitted only a whisper, a mere shade of his voice's normal strength. "I… I must speak with Aragorn."

For a moment she said nothing, her expression taut with fear and concern. Questions pursed her lips, but she realized his urgency for she did not speak them. Instead she nodded and dropped her hands. She opened her arms and Legolas gently handed her the small child in his arms. Fethra was sucking on her thumb again, but neither Elf was composed enough to reprimand the girl. Arwen brushed the unruly locks from her brow as Fethra settled against her. She was obviously unhappy as she reluctantly tore her gaze from her troubled friend. Arwen forced joy into her voice as she slowly walked away, speaking in hushed tones to Fethra. Legolas watched as they disappeared into an antechamber where the child would be sheltered from the substance of the conversation.

Sudden footsteps surprised Legolas, and he nearly jumped. It was only Aragorn emerging from another area of the large room. The Elf castigated himself for his weakened senses and poor control. The king spotted his friend and, as had happened with Arwen, his warm, greeting smile slid from his face. He abandoned adjusting his attire as he quickly approached. "Legolas," he said quietly, "you look terrible. What has happened?"

A shuddering breath escaped the shaking lips of the Elf. "I finally slept, Aragorn," he explained.

Aragorn gently motioned that they enter a more private area. A small terrace was set to the left of the chamber, the outlet filled the bright morning sun. Legolas winced as they stepped into the light and looked out over the city. Everything seemed as it should, Minas Tirith serene with the arrival of a beautiful autumn day. "That is good," Aragorn eventually commented when the Elf supplied nothing further. The king was rattled as well, for in all the long years they had been friends, he had never before seen Legolas as such.

"No, you do not understand," Legolas countered. He faltered. Self-loathing bubbled through him like black murk, choking his heart. Now, when it mattered, he could not bring himself to speak. The pain was still too fresh, the terror too real, the anguish too near. He had come all this way, and he could not explain himself! He shuddered in the cold wind, wanting desperately to divulge what had occurred, but his will failed him.

Aragorn watched him with wide, waiting eyes, his face twisted in exasperated worry. Clearly the Elf's disinclination to speak had alerted him further to his friend's affliction. His eyes became imploring as he grasped Legolas' shoulder. The touch repulsed the hurting Elf, and he pulled away. Somehow that action was enough to jostle from him the terrible truth. "Something came to me in the night. I cannot explain it. I do not know if it was a dream, or…" He could not finish. Some part of his sanity had become fettered to the hope that it had all been some perverted nightmare and it could not afford to even entertain any idea otherwise.

"What?"

Legolas lowered his gaze to the stones beneath their feet. The scene became blurry. "They had taken me," he whispered.

"Who?"

Anger surged through him, a fury hotter than the sun that something so vile, so degrading, had been done to him without so much as a single intimation of its perpetrator. "I do not know!" he shouted, turning around sharply. His eyes blazed. "I could not see them! Everything was so very red, and I could not make sense of it." His breath charged the air, and frustration and grief shook his voice. "I tried so hard to see…" Guilt riddled him and he had to look away again.

Aragorn did not respond immediately, but when he did, he did so softly and patiently. "Tell me what happened."

The invitation was too powerful to refuse. The dam he had erected around the horrendous truth fell as the pain bashed against it, and he spoke in a suddenly calm, low tone. "They beat me, tortured me. I was bound. I could not fight. And then a voice came from the haze. It sounded so familiar, as if I should have known of its owner, and yet I could not place it." The Elf gave a wry smile, his face twisting with just a bit of maniacal despondency. "He spoke of my submission, of my purpose as his…  _challenge_. He questioned my place upon Middle Earth." He chuckled, though there was nothing at all amusing. "He implied he had the will to change matters beyond any being's control. Foolish, arrogant words spewed from his mouth, and I defied him."

Legolas became silent. The memory returned unbidden of those cruel taunts and jeers. Of that painful kiss. His will fled him, as fickle as it was, and he turned away, unwilling to let Aragorn see his shame. The king was quiet as well, most likely struggling to understand the muddled words of his distraught friend. When the emptiness became unbearable, Aragorn had no choice but to prompt him. "Speak. I will think no less of you."

The Elf felt every muscle in his drained body clench in rage. His lips moved of their own accord. "He forced himself upon me." The whisper had come from his own mouth, but he could not make himself believe its truth. Denial was too alluring an escape. "He defiled me and then laughed at my screams."

The soft words hung on the air. Neither was willing to accept them. Neither was willing to believe such a thing possible. But what choice had they? The truth could be not be refuted, not for all the want of their straining hearts. Souls quivered. The morning had turned black and cold.

A short breath fled the king's lips, and on it was a whispered prayer pleading for strength. His eyes were wide in shock and anger, and the normal strength of his face had shattered, leaving a frightened man frantic to somehow rationalize what he had heard. "It was only a dream, Legolas."

"Nay!" retorted the horrified Elf. His eyes flashed as he recoiled from Aragorn, stepping away and shaking his head. "It was not! He said as much!"

"It had to be a dream!" Aragorn insisted vehemently. Ire flashed in his gray eyes. He was clearly unwilling to believe otherwise. Legolas did not know whether to be insulted or glad, so muddled were his emotions. "It could not have happened!" The Elf did not respond to that; he simply did not know what to say. His strengths shifted so quickly that he was lost in the storm of memory and agitation. Silence returned, one wrought with pain and hopeless anger. Aragorn walked to the edge of the terrace, grasping the cold railing so hard his knuckles were white. Legolas had not once looked at him, standing to the side, staring emptily out across Minas Tirith. The city glowed a pearly white in the golden sun of daybreak. The breeze wafted by them, sending his hair blowing. "If not a dream, then what?" Aragorn softly inquired. His voice spoke of his struggle to understand.

Legolas swallowed uncomfortably. "A warning, perhaps," he answered quietly. "A premonition."

"Of what?"

Annoyance forced sharpness to his voice that he did not want. "I know not, Aragorn! Nor do I know why it came to me! I do not have any answers!"

Aragorn grunted and turned away. The Elf did not want pity. Legolas was a proud creature, and he abhorred such treatment. Never did he want to be a burden. Never did he enjoy the prospect of others thinking lowly of him or his plights. The two friends stood again in an awkward quiet.

"Who could do such a thing?" Aragorn's question was rhetorical, but Legolas wished adamantly that he had the knowledge to answer it. "Who could attack you through dreams?"

It suddenly made expeditious sense as he stood there gazing over Pelennor Fields. Frantically, Legolas turned and grabbed Aragorn's arm. "There is something very black at work here." Blue eyes blazed with the frenzy of his words. "Something dark and dangerous seeks to destroy us. No simple force could do this! It was so terribly real… You must agree with me!"

"Surely I do, Legolas, but who? And why?"

The Elf bit his lip in frustration. "I cannot say. But I am certain that is somehow involves them." His shaking fingers swept over the scene before him where, in the distance, the army of the Haradrim had camped. From this vantage they appeared little more than waves of black grasses shifting and bending in the wind.

Aragorn's face fell. His brow creased in unenthusiastic consideration. "There is no evidence they could be involved," he declared quietly, turning to look upon his friend.

Legolas' emotions were stealing his composure. He spoke quickly and without much thought, desperate to convince Aragorn of his argument, positive of the veracity of this newfound belief. "Yet there is no evidence to the contrary, either."

The wind spoke in their stead then, and tension seeped into the silence. Aragorn's next words greatly surprised Legolas. "Let me see your wound."

Taken aback, the Elf drew away from him, stepping back and fixing Aragorn with a suspicious stare. "What? Why?"

The king sighed, looked up, and held his friend's gaze firmly. The archer watched the emotions play across his friend's face, but they moved so quickly that he could make no sense of them. One thing was clear and constant, though, and it glimmered in Aragorn's eyes. It pierced Legolas' pride, his sense of worth, his hope. Doubt. "Please, I must examine it."

Rage blossomed inside the Elf like a bloody flower, and his voice rose in shaking anger. "My wound has naught to do with this!" Then it hit him, as brutal as the chain cracking into his flesh, as unwanted and chilling as the touches upon his hapless body. His eyes widened and cold waves of betrayal lanced his spirit. "You do not believe me," he whispered weakly. This had for some reason never occurred to him.

Hurt shone in Aragorn's eyes. He stepped towards Legolas, who retreated at his approach. Had the Elf been more composed and less offended, such a childish action would never have even graced his mind. But the pain would allow him no other recourse. He felt so terribly ashamed and guilty, and even though he saw the very same troubles in his friend's sad gaze, he could not make himself trust their honesty. "Please, Legolas," Aragorn said. His weak voice betrayed his fear and remorse. "I do not mean to doubt you, but I must be certain. I did not wish to say anything last night out of respect, but I know you are not well. I know you are hiding how hurt you truly are. I have known since I saw you after Cair Andros. Do you think I could have possibly not noticed how you suffer?"

The king's unthreatening tone gave him pause. There was no hint of malice in Aragorn's voice, and Legolas felt wretched then for having thought so lowly of his friend. Were he in Aragorn's place, he might do the same. Were it his friend so destroyed, appearing as such a wounded mess before him, he was certain he would consider the same alternatives. The truth was too horrific, too impossible. Legolas was a strong Elf, with senses far too keen and a body honed by centuries of experience and talent in combat. Never had he fallen in battle. Never had he faltered. For such a thing to happen to him… it did not make sense. And neither of them wanted it to.

Legolas released a slow breath, forcing his body to relax and his pounding heart to slow. He nodded sullenly in defeat. His numb fingers slowly and clumsily undid the loosely drawn ties of his tunic. Then his eyes darted about madly; every shadow was a potential threat to him. Irrational, he knew, but his behavior had changed so quickly in the wake of his assault. Aragorn stepped closer cautiously, not missing his friend's terrified actions, his face betraying how greatly bothered he was by them. Legolas' whole form was riddled with fear, his muscles tight and his breath short. Memories came unbidden, and again he was plagued by the touch of rough hands and lips.  _Stop this! Aragorn will not hurt you! How could you even think such?_

Summoning forth whatever remained of his shattered courage, he gingerly lifted his shirt. He barely felt the painful protest of his injuries as he pulled the cloth over his head. He drew a deep breath to calm his riled nerves and waited, vulnerable and helpless.

Quiet reigned for a moment longer, and the only touch upon him was the cold brush of the wind. Then he heard a soft step. Warm, rough hands spread along his shoulder blades. Legolas jerked subconsciously, holding back furious tears as the nightmare tortured him anew. The gentle touch pressed down his back. There was no blood, he knew. No slashes or bruised welts. He sadly wished that there were, though. At least that would lend credibility to his claims. At least that would substantiate this torment, casting light upon its phantasmal tortures, giving truth to nightmare and easing his pleading spirit.

He lifted his arms without request, standing stiffly. Aragorn set about quickly unwrapping the linen bandages. Legolas could barely force himself to breathe, for his chest has tightened and his throat had constricted. Finally the aged wound was revealed.

Gentle fingers prodded at his ribs. He made no sound though the discomfort was great. Numbness had spread over him, a sort of potent indifference that served to shield a battered spirit from further harm and humiliation. Aragorn squinted as he analyzed the bruised flesh. "This is not healing as it should," commented the king. Legolas barely registered the words. Nothing made sense to him, and he hated the way his flesh crawled at Aragorn's ministrations. "It is strange. This wound seems as fresh and new as the day I first treated it. Yet there are no signs of infection or poison." In his voice was a great deal of confusion and disappointment; clearly he had hoped that the injury might explain Legolas' behavior. Perhaps he was not so certain it did not.

The Elf closed his eyes. His jaw tightened. "Why would I lie about this?" he demanded harshly. He lowered his arms and slipped his tunic over his head again before Aragorn had a chance to rewrap his wound. "What reason could I possibly have to conjure up something so terrible?"

The king's face broke in horrified anger. "I do not think you are lying!"

"Then why can you not believe what I say?" exclaimed the Elf, his own fury and panic burning in his eyes as his ripped around and glared at his friend. "I am telling you, nay,  _begging_  you; do not trust them! Evil plots against us and it stems from them!"

Aragorn approached his seething friend and looked straight into his eyes. His hissed lowly, "I am  _king_ , Legolas. I cannot make such a grand decision based on an unsubstantiated nightmare! You said yourself that you could not identify your attacker–"

"Yes, but–"

The man shook his head, holding Legolas' harsh glare. "They have presented to me no solid reason to deny their request for alliance. I will admit that their appearance does disturb me, but I cannot in good faith as a leader turn them away based solely upon coincidence!"

"Coincidence? That is not–"

"If we can benefit each other's causes with peace, even if it is only temporary, I must be willing to risk the chance this is all a ruse. I refuse to see more innocents slaughtered!" He dropped his tone. "I have given this much thought since last night. I do not trust them, no, but I feel that misgiving is borne from prejudice and fear, not from fact. I will not let such a weakness define the future of this nation. I will not. Believe you me, we are all above such base reasoning. War threatens us and we must put aside old differences. This is not a decision I make lightly."

"But you will make it wrongly," countered Legolas. Hastily he tightened the draws of his tunic about his bare chest, unwilling to appear so exposed any longer. "And you will do so without my consent. Last night you thought my opinion of value. Will you now tell me differently? You asked me what I would do, and now I will tell you plainly. They are evil. This appears innocent enough, but there is much more beneath their façade that we cannot see!"

"Last night  _you_  thought them amiable. Last night you bade me to trust them. A terrible dream comes to you that yields no proof beyond what your tormented imagination can conjure, and you change your mind! Tell me what about this lends credibility to your cautions, and you know that I will gladly heed them! Tell me what clue lies within this dream, and you know I will listen!"

Rage flared within him, hotter and brighter than the sun. "It was no dream, Aragorn! It was no dream!"

"There is not a mark on you! If you truly had sustained such a beating, there would be blood, wounds…"

The Elf floundered. Therein was the problem, he knew. There was no evidence. There was nothing aside from his own memory of the event, a memory that not even he could be certain was untainted by his own exhaustion and despair. The fire of his anger cooled in the front of such opposition, and he looked away. Tears blurred his eyes, desperate, stinging tears that he refused to release. He felt so terribly dirty, so used…

Hands came to grasp his shoulders, strong, friendly hands, but Legolas felt ill at their touch. The world spun around him in nauseating circles. "Please, you have been through so much these past days. Fatigue has driven your mind in nightmare." Aragorn's expression was tense with despair and deep worry. This exchange obviously upset and frightened him greatly. It was with good reason. Legolas had never been so distraught, so shaken and shattered. So lost. This was not who he was, what he was. "You are weary and hurt. You know not what you speak."

"Why is my word suddenly not enough?" Legolas asked.

Aragorn's grip became harder, as if he wished physically to press his reasons into the Elf. "Because I am king," he adamantly repeated. "As your friend, as your  _brother_ , I would need no more than what you have said. But I cannot make choices so easily in my position. I cannot act on your word alone, especially when neither you nor I understand the meaning of this… this… this vision!"

The Elf jerked away. The anger surged up within him once more, driving his weary body. "You betray me with your doubt, Aragorn."

The king's calm expression shattered in innocent hurt and ire. Were it any other time, Legolas would have felt terribly guilty for saying such a horrible thing. Were it any other time, this conversation would have never occurred. They were the calmest of friends, brothers at heart, and they did not quarrel easily. But something inside the Elf drove him to make Aragorn believe him, and he was awfully hurt as well that his closest friend would rather account his words to sickness and dismiss them than take them for their worth.

There came the sound of a throat clearing. Both man and Elf glanced to the opening of the terrace, forgetful in their argument that the world around them still existed. A page cleared his throat nervously, obviously knowing that he was interrupting something quite serious. He looked as if he wished to bolt. "My Lord, the Haradrim await you at the Gateway. They have important news for you."

Legolas looked down in shame and fury, turning away from Aragorn so the other would not see the frustrated tears in his eyes. Aragorn sighed slowly, releasing himself from the intensity of their conversation, and looked to the frazzled man. "Send word for Lord Faramir to meet me at the gate. Summon King Éomer as well, if you would."

"As you wish, sire," came the polite reply. The soft fall of feet alerted the Elf to the man's departure, but he did not turn. Something inside him pulsed in a fury stronger than he had ever before known.  _This is folly. We walk into their trap. I know it! Aragorn, why will you not heed my words?_  But he did not say these things. He was too hurt, too spiteful, to care much any longer.

He felt the king's weariness and worry as though they were tangible. A hand touched his upon the cold banister. "Legolas, please," Aragorn pleaded softly. His eyes were wide and imploring. The Elf could see in them sympathy and concern, agony for his plight and suffering, and the glint of a wish that somehow this terrible event be undone. "Go and seek some reprieve. I do not need you on the field today. I would much prefer to know that you are safe, and that you are recovering from this. Surely this did not really happen to you. It is in your mind. Nothing could do such a thing to you, my friend. I am sure of it." The words meant little, for the damage had been done. It hurt too much to consider the truth in what Aragorn had said. To do so would make false his shaky perception of reality, of certainty, of himself. "I am here for you. It breaks my heart to see you as such. Please, I beg you. Go and rest."

"Why?" Legolas snapped. "I will not find peace in wakefulness, and I certainly will not sleep again."

Aragorn tensed with the hateful, frightened words. "I could prepare a draught for you," he offered gently, as though coaxing a wounded animal closer to him so that he might treat it. "You would rest easily, with no dreams."

The Elf released a cruel laugh. "You would drug me into a senseless stupor? Do you think so lowly of me? Thank you, but no. I will face this myself if you will not help me."

"Legolas, please, stop this! You are not yourself! You talk of madness!"

He turned upon his friend a piercing, murderous stare. "Then perhaps I am mad, Aragorn. Perhaps my mind seeks to torture me with phantom pains and sick caresses. Perhaps there is no truth beyond the veil of my own thoughts. For days have I suffered without sleep, and I can continue to do so." He shook his head and gave a strangled laugh. "No, my Lord. I express my deepest gratitude, but this is clearly a plight with which I must contend in solitude." He gave a stiff bow. He could not tolerate to be in Aragorn's presence any longer. He was dirty, unwanted, and unworthy of Aragorn's esteems. Bitterness choked him as he spoke. "I shall join you at the Gateway, my King. Forgive me my rambling and I thank you for your time." The coldness of his normally soft voice stunned even him, but the cruel apathy that had taken hold of him in protection allowed him to feel little. Aragorn's face shattered in hurt, the gray eyes glistening wetly. But Legolas could not bear the weight of what had happened and what they had said. He was no prince, no Elf, no friend. He was a victim. He was weak.

He turned quickly and stalked away. His mind closed itself to the pain, and his body moved of its own accord. He stepped to the small chamber where Arwen sat with Fethra and settled his eyes upon the child and the child alone. "Come, Fethra. I am finished here."

The girl's face lit up joyously upon seeing him. Without a second thought she jumped down from Arwen's lap and ran over to him. The queen was apparently forgotten, though she elegantly rose from her seat beside the windows. Legolas refused to look upon her, though he felt the pain of loving concern press through her steady gaze. Instead, he lifted Fethra into his arms, kissed her temple, and then turned. His legs carried him, for his heart had simply collapsed. Tears filled his eyes, but he would not cry. He would not cry!

"Legolas, wait!" cried Arwen.

But only the slamming of the door answered.


	13. Between Restoration and Remission

He was composed, or at least as composed as was possible. In the privacy of his room he had quickly bathed, hoping that some hot water and soap would cleanse him of the dirt covering his spirit as it could wash away grime and blood. Fethra had played in the outer room loudly as he had sunk into the tub, his body shaking and his mind vertiginous. There had been little time, and the urgency flogged his already wavering sense of calm. He hardly allowed himself any rest, emerging from the water far too quickly, drying, and dressing himself. As he had pulled a clean tunic and jerkin from his closets, he had stopped to look at the old bruises painting his side in hideous purples and blacks. Aragorn's words about the injury's failure to heal properly bothered him momentarily, but he had been too distracted to spend much more than a thought upon it. He had straightened himself as best as he could before taking Fethra's hand once more, forcing a smile upon his pale face for her sake. She had been harmed enough as it was; certainly he did not need to augment her despair.

Then his feet had carried him through the Citadel on a mission his mind barely registered. There were many people about this morning, but he was blind to their nods and deaf to their salutations. The part of his mind that had not succumbed to despair was frantically considering the few options left to him. He could not take Fethra to the Gateway, for he refused to subject her to any sort of danger, and such a convoluted and difficult situation was no place for a child. Yet he could not bring her back to Arwen. He doubted he had the bravery to face the queen's questions, and he was too humiliated and hurt to face Aragorn again. The memory of their argument alone was enough to cause his chest to clench in anger, and he forced himself to calm and forget. If he could only push this all aside! He realized that such a thing was utterly impossible, for the recollections of both the nightmare and the argument were fresh and too powerful upon his beaten mind. Exhaustion denied him the normal stoic control he exerted over his thoughts, and they ran on their own accord, torturing him with terror and fury. Curse Aragorn! He had gone to his friend for solace, for a chance to unburden this horrible weight upon his soul, for a hope to wipe away the stain covering his quivering spirit. How dare the man do this to him!

Legolas choked on his breath, pushing the thoughts from his mind. They were simply too distressing, and the press of the dream alone upon him was enough to torment. He would have to clear his head and focus. Too much was at stake. At least his feet had some sort of direction, it seemed, for they took him to a place he had not consciously chosen but for which he was grateful all the same.

The Elf sighed and steadied himself and raised a knuckle to knock upon the wooden door. Before he could, a small, scared voice cooed in his ear. "Leglass," Fethra whimpered, "are you leaving me again?"

Her plaintive tone only amplified his misery. He did not want to abandon her. At this juncture, she had become the only source of comfort for him. In this great, wide city, filled with many people gifted with amiable hearts, he had never felt so utterly alone and frightened. Yet responsibility was a powerful force. Legolas grimly remembered the tale he had told Fethra last night about the frivolous little wood Elf that shunned all obligation. How the little Elf had grown into a creature of decorum, tethered constantly to duty. Even in this, perhaps one of the darkest, most painful moments of his long life, he would serve those who needed him. "I must, little one. Remember what I told you last night about many people dying?" He held her wide gaze, and she nodded slightly, her fingers finding their way to her mouth. "I have to go protect them now, just as you asked."

His soft statements had the desired effect. Fethra nodded, pleased that he was doing these things for her. A child could hardly be expected to understand anything so grand as war councils or meetings that might decide the fate of entire nations. Then she sat up a bit in his arms and wetly kissed his cheek. He chuckled softly, in that brief instance the pain receding just enough for him to embrace the warmth of her love for him. Then he resumed knocking on the door.

It came open a moment later, and Éowyn stood there. Her blue eyes were confused a moment, her elegant face slack. Then she bowed a bit. "Good morning, Legolas," she said. Her eyes came upon his face, and he knew he had failed to hide his distress from her. Her expression tightened in concern. Though he was the least open with Éowyn, he knew the depths of her love for all ran deep, despite her unwillingness to show it. A few quiet moments back in Ithilien had proven her affection towards him as one of her husband's closest allies and a friend to her as well. He suddenly recalled a moment in Rohan years ago, after Aragorn had disappeared in battle and all had thought him dead. Legolas had held tight to his hope, unwilling to even entertain the fact that his closest friend might be lost to him forever. Because of his silent strength, she had sought him out when the shadows of the night became too heavy and the grief too great. They had stood in quiet for many minutes, watching the distant horizon from which Aragorn would have to approach should he ride to Helm's Deep. She had only spoke once, but he had never forgotten her words for in them the Elf and the woman had connected for a moment, bridging gaps between two yearning souls.  _"I do not understand your kind, but I am glad you have come to defend us. The night is made warmer and lighter because of you."_

He shook himself from his reverie, realizing that Éowyn was staring at him. She explained, "My Lord has already gone to the field, if it is him who you seek."

Legolas looked down briefly, shame flooding his eyes. "Nay, my Lady, I must ask another favor of you. I am sorry to burden you–"

Éowyn understood immediately what he was asking of her and shook her head slightly. The smallest hint of a smile tugged at her thin lips. "It is no burden. Today I was meant to join Lady Ioreth in the Houses of Healing. If you do not mind, I will take her there with me."

Vaguely the Elf prince recalled hearing from Faramir once many nights ago that Éowyn had begun training as a healer, apparently inspired by her own experiences in the Houses of Healing after the Battle of Pelennor Fields. The Houses of Healing was one of the safest places in Minas Tirith, located deep within the city and heavily guarded. If an attack was launched against them, it would take their enemies a great deal of time to reach so far into the White City.

Legolas was satisfied with the arrangement. Tenderly he handed Fethra to Éowyn, and the Lady of Emyn Arnen accepted the child with a smile. "Hello, Miss Fethra. Do you remember me?" she asked quietly as the girl settled against her.

Fethra smiled broadly. Her behavior now was much improved over yesterday's tantrum. "Ehwyn!"

Éowyn laughed melodically. "That is right," she declared happily. She looked up from the child and saw Legolas still lingering in the open doorway. The smile slid slowly from her face, and Legolas' form tensed under her analytical gaze. Clear was the care upon her fair countenance for his lifeless eyes and worn appearance. But she did not question him. Perhaps it was the ghost of formality that still lingered between them that staunched the words she might have spoken. Perhaps she was just mindful of the dispositions of others, and she saw his silent need for solitude. In either case, he was grateful for her discretion. It shone in his eyes, so no words were required. Éowyn gave a quick, small smile and a curt nod, and Legolas backed away from the door as she closed it. The Elf felt an iota of relief at the short exchange. Inexplicable as it was, it eased his heart to know both that Fethra would be safe and that Éowyn still regarded him with the same detached respect.

Then he was moving, long legs propelling him gracefully and rapidly through the halls of the Citadel. His heart thudded uncharacteristically loudly in his chest, as if yearning to escape the torment cast upon him. He felt warm and cold at once, and his entire body ached mercilessly. He tried vehemently to convince himself that only duty and urgency drove his heated jog, but his aching spirit knew otherwise. People and places were a blur, and he did not care to look. He did not want to see their accusing glares, their wanton pity, their disbelief and disgust. He would not satisfy their depraved interest in his state! His eyes blankly centered upon the flying mesh of stone and carpet beneath his feet, and tensing his frame was all he could to keep a merciless shudder at bay. He ran faster, desperate to escape this prison of paranoia and pain. Vaguely he knew this monster to be of his own creation, and he also realized that reaching the exit to the Citadel would not be the relief he hoped.

Bright light washed over him and he winced. The intensity of the cheery sun mysteriously hurt his eyes, and disdainfully he winced at the throbbing that was coming to settle behind his brow. The Elf prince wasted not a single step or breath in acclimation, though, continuing in his race to the Gateway. A prayer beat in his mind, one that offered a bit of relief from the crushing weight of his despair. If he could only reach the others and concentrate on matters outside his memories, his distress would disappear. He was so sure of it!

Minutes passed during his flight through the city, but to the Elf they were little more than heartbeats. All the activity of morning business cluttered the streets, and the air hummed with conversation. Yet it was restrained this day, as though the people were hesitant to believe that peace still somehow existed. The muted pulse of words and whispers was laced with undeniable tension and fear. The prospect of war hung over the citizens, threatening destruction and desolation, and they were more than willing to simply allow higher matters to direct them in their fate. Hope and prayer sufficed for them, supplying security enough to allow a relatively common morning to follow after such an upsetting night. How easy for them! Legolas envied them the simplicity of their plight. They could trust in their lords to manage this convoluted and dangerous situation. No such luxury was afforded the lords themselves.

These thoughts darkened his mood further before he reached the Gateway. He descended the last road, following impatiently behind columns of troops designated to resume the guard after the present soldiers retired from the nightly watch. The nimble Elf picked his way through the lines gracefully, and the soldiers were surprised enough at Legolas' actions to allow him passage. Blue eyes were dark and viciously narrowed, and thin lips were compressed tightly in a grim line. Never before had they witnessed their king's closest ally and friend so deeply enraged and troubled, and none had the courage to block his way.

Finally Legolas reached the Gateway. The great portal stood open, permitting cool zephyrs to sweep across Pelennor Fields and enter the White City. The Elf scanned the scene quickly. A mixture of Gondorian militiamen and the White Guard stood stiffly about the entrance, distrust and apprehension clear upon their faces. On the other side of the gate was a great mess of Southrons, their dark cloaks billowing in the wind. Legolas stepped lightly through the crowd of soldiers, curiosity pushing aside his despair.

He spotted Gimli and began to stride towards him. The Dwarf stood proudly beside Faramir, his arms across over his broad chest. The breeze ruffled the mass of crinkly red hair atop his head. The rusty snarls fell down his shoulders, framing his round face, and Legolas was amused for a moment. It was one of the little things that made Gimli so endearing, he supposed. It was almost impossible to tell where all that hair stopped and all that beard began.

But the smile never reached his face. The stout warrior met his gaze, and for the first time in their friendship, Legolas averted his eyes in shame. He felt dizzy and weak with grief. Gimli's face fell. He had not missed the Elf's unusual action. "What troubles you, lad?"

And now it came to it. Perhaps it would not be such a terrible idea to tell Gimli of what had happened to him. Together they might both be able to convince Aragorn of the danger he sensed, of the terrible future that loomed before them should they make this alliance. But the sour voice of his hurt and doubt drowned out that of his hope. Aragorn, his closest and oldest friend, had not believed him. What made him think he could convince Gimli? Furthermore, the pain was beginning to sink into a soothing, dull oblivion, and he was not sure he wanted to again subject himself to it. He had been burned once in his attempt to warn others of the dark forces at work. Was he strong enough to again face the rejection?

A long, silent moment passed. To Legolas it seemed an eternity as he lingered uncertainly between truth and lie, between restoration and remission. Briefly he summoned forth some bravery, some endurance, and he thought he might be able to withstand the barrage of shame and sorrow admitting his experience to Gimli would entail. But courage was often fickle in the face of such personal adversity, and it left as easily as it had come to bolster his resolve, leaving him terrified of both what had been done to him and the prospect of living the horror once more.

"Elf?"

Gimli's anxious whisper drew him away from the threat of agonizing memory, and Legolas focused his blurry gaze upon his small friend. The Dwarf watched him with steely eyes, but within the dark orbs was thinly veiled worry. Legolas released a slow breath that felt shaky and weak to him and his companion. "It is nothing, friend Gimli."

The Dwarf's face flushed redder with annoyance. "You have said such words far too many times of late. You are not well, and it is plain for all to see. Will you never confide in me the substance of your distress?"

Legolas' heart panged in sorrowful guilt. He sighed gently, his chest aching with the movement. "One day I will. This I swear." He could whisper nothing more, but what he had left unsaid was clear enough. His reluctance to divulge his terror did not stem from Gimli but from himself. Now he simply had not the strength.

Those dark eyes flashed with a bit of annoyance a great deal of worry, but the response seemed to appease Gimli enough. The tone in Legolas' voice has subtly implored that the matter be dropped, and Gimli was neither so oblivious nor so cruel as to continue to torment the rattled Elf with questions.

The two turned as Faramir finished his quiet conversation with Aragorn and Éomer. The steward looked a bit haggard. His lean face was still unnaturally pale, but it was without the unhealthy waxen appearance of the day before. Faramir stood a bit hunched, as if maintaining a full posture was still too strenuous for his sore body. Yet vigor had returned to his eyes, claiming the gray orbs hungrily and filling them with life and energy. With resolution.

Aragorn turned his eyes upon Legolas, but the Elf looked away before the king could catch his gaze. The aversion was childish perhaps, but the archer felt terribly exposed before his friend and equally bitter about it. All that had been said was fresh upon his brutalized mind, and his soul was left quivering for the pain he felt. He barely noticed when Éomer began to speak. "I have just spoken with Ulpheth, the guard. The Emperor comes momentarily."

"I do not suppose he bothered to inform you as to the meaning behind all this?" Gimli asked angrily, folding his arms once again across his chest.

Éomer's hazel eyes were apologetic as he shook his head. A frustrated tone came to his voice. "Nay. I know little aside from what the sentinels have reported. Earlier this morning five riders approached their camp from the north. I assume they are the scouts Holis mentioned."

Gimli grunted to Éomer's assessment but said nothing else, settling into anxious thought. They group stood in silence briefly, apprehension and doubt claiming the moment, until Éomer spoke again. The young king turned his attention to Aragorn and dropped his tone to a private murmur. "Have you decided to form this alliance?"

Aragorn did not answer immediately. His eyes darted to Legolas, and the Elf found strength enough to hold his friend's gaze. For the first time in many years, Legolas could not detect Aragorn's emotions through a simple look. The ranger's face was masterfully impassive, and his gray eyes were void of all hint of thought or mood. This small shielded gesture was an affront to the Elf, and Legolas tightened his jaw. Maybe a thought came to him of repentance or shame, for surely he had placed Aragorn in a difficult position. In essence the Elf bid him to choose between their friendship and his kingly responsibility. But if such a thought came at all, it did not pierce the tough shroud of his fury. The Elf's face hardened and his gaze became an accusing glare.

Finally Aragorn looked away, color rising to his pale cheeks. His response was not what Legolas expected. "Nay," said the man quietly, "not as yet." No explanation was required, as his lords thought highly of his judgment and trusted him readily even if they did not understand. Still, Aragorn gave his reasons, as if to convince himself that he was delaying his decision for a cause besides Legolas'. "I wish to know more of what they propose to offer us before agreeing to any contract."

It was reasonable enough. The heat of Legolas' rage cooled somewhat in relief. At least Aragorn had not rashly committed them to this allegiance. There might yet be time to understand the warning he had received and act appropriately upon it.

The group spoke no more, though, for one of the gate guards bellowed, "The Lord Emperor comes!" The wall of dark Southrons parted, and along the path walked Holis. He appeared as he had the previous night, save in the light of day he seemed somehow luminous and even more powerful. This aura of strength and grace he exuded was nearly palpable, yet it remained gentle and unobtrusive, resembling more a soft, cooling breeze than a vicious, ripping gale. Dark eyes quickly looked about the faces of those gathered again, and Legolas stiffened as they fell upon him. Despite his fear, he searched Holis' gaze ardently for some sort of sign that the assault had been of the other's making, that the horror done against him was of this man's desire. Certainly there would be some sign of power, of lust, of sadistic and gleeful control… but there was naught of the sort. Holis blinked and offered Legolas a small smile as he approached. That gentle act stunned the Elf, and cold fear and doubt assailed his already agitated body. Holis' pleasant demeanor was quite disarming, his eyes void of threat of malice or arrogance. He seemed genuinely friendly, and Legolas looked away, sorely confused. Perhaps the Haradrim meant them no harm. Perhaps whatever had come to him during the night had merely been a dream…  _How could that be? If it was… That would mean… Please, I cannot bear this! What is wrong with me?_

The emperor began to speak. Legolas was so distraught he could barely follow the conversation. "I apologize for my tardiness, my Lords, but conferring with my informants took longer than I expected."

Aragorn dismissed the other's concerns. "It is no bother," said he easily. "We readily accept whatever information you offer."

Holis' face grew taut and stony with obvious anger and dismay. "Then I shall quickly deliver it to you," he declared evenly. "It appears that our enemy moves against the region of Lebennin. They turn north across the plains. Their target is Emyn Nimsîr."

Faramir and Éomer shared a confused glance. Legolas empathized with them. That hamlet was of no strategic importance. Nestled at the juncture of the Rivers Celos and Sirith, it was mostly inaccessible. The White Mountains guarded the village from the northwest, blocking any easy route to Minas Tirith. Legolas knew little of the tiny town. It was sparsely populated with mostly farming families. Attacking it made hardly any sense.

Holis seemed to sense their doubt. "I do not know to what purpose they now work. This news alarmed and perplexed me as well. Is this establishment heavily populated?"

Aragorn winced slightly, his eyes distant in thought. "No, not heavily. It is primarily an agricultural community."

The emperor's glazed eyes gained a sharper glint. "I see no logic in it, my Lord."

Faramir shook his head. "This is more than a simple attack. Emyn Nimsîr is a secluded place with no easy entrance or exit. The rivers are surrounded by marsh and swampland. The mountains to the north are impassible. The plains are damp and heavily cultivated, even at this time of year. The land is flat and difficult to defend. It is a noose, and a tight one at that. They will trap us should we send aid to its people."

The words were heavy and rang with unwanted truth. The ambush at Cair Andros hung in the air like a ghost, drawing doubt and anger from those present. "Cowards," hissed Gimli, loathing in his eyes and voice. "Would they rather play these ugly games than face us truly?"

Holis' eyes glowed in a slow-burning ire. "It appears so, Master Dwarf. As I said, they honor no rules, no boundaries of honorable engagement. They seek to slaughter and win, and they do so recklessly and relentlessly. We recognize them no longer as part of our nation for their crimes against yours."

Éomer's eyes settled upon Holis. Legolas saw within them a sense of trust, of gratitude for offering to them this information. "How many men do they move toward Emyn Nimsîr?" he questioned.

"A thousand at least." Holis' response was soft, but its diminished volume did not hide the immensity of its implication. Legolas glanced to Faramir, and the steward's face seemed more ashen and less certain. "I cannot be certain if this army represents their entire force. I do not even know if these are the same men that ravaged your other towns. I am sorry."

It was silent for a moment.  _A thousand men…_  Legolas thought, his eyes narrowed. For the moment the pain of his own problems fled, and he was overcome with worry and hate. Worry for the small community now threatened. Hatred for the men who aimed to destroy it. He imagined the destruction, the massacre, and his blood boiled in rage.  _A thousand men against a small village of barely a hundred! Those bloodthirsty savages! To make an example of innocents…_  Such a crime must not be allowed to occur.

Faramir finally released a slow breath. He had dipped his gaze to the ground in the empty minutes before in contemplation, but now he looked up. His eyes fell to Aragorn. "They will all be destroyed unless we act." The steward's jaw tightened; Legolas watched the muscles of his face dance in unrestrained wrath. "The village will have no warning. We cannot let these monsters roam our lands and turn our citizens to messages and symbols! We must stop this."

"Aye," Gimli rumbled from beside the Elf. "Aragorn, now is the time to face them. If we move quickly, we can reinforce the town and defend them from the onslaught. Time and stealth are two great advantages. The Easterlings mayhap expect only a small militia will counter them. It is they who will be ambushed!"

Éomer was quick to add his own affirmations. "My Lord, we must not linger. If we do not act now, we will loose this chance!" He made no move to mask the urgency in his voice, and its effect was not lost on Aragorn.

The king shifted his stance. He was greatly troubled, for there was no easy answer. Mistrust still lingered, but would it be strong enough to outweigh the importance of stopping the Easterlings' terrorism? Then his eyes focused upon Holis. "How much time do we have?" he asked evenly.

A helpless, worried expression creased the emperor's smooth brow. "Little, my Lord, unfortunately. The scouts were unable to ascertain when the Easterlings planned to make their move, but I must imagine that they will do so soon. According to their report, this force is located far to the south. They will have to march north. If we leave now, we can reach this town before they do. Only swift action ensures us dominion."

The argument was alluring. To finally face the enemy, to stop this foray of suffering and fear, to end this now…

Aragorn's face was blank, his eyes cool and hard, but Legolas saw his desires. He as well wished for this to stop. He as well wanted to take control of the situation and avenge those who had suffered. But his ambition was not without restraint. "Are these informants of yours trustworthy?"

It was an outright test of test Holis' sincerity. But only hurt and a bit of sadness flashed in Holis' eyes. He did not quickly brush aside Aragorn's question, though, nor did his own tone reflect any anger or resentment. "Of course. I would not speak to you otherwise." The thick rope of braided hair slithered along the red of his cloak like a snake. "We stand beside you, King Elessar, in whatever you decide. I desire an end to their aggressions as much as you do."

A statement as such put immediate pressure upon Aragorn to choose their course of action. The king was still, tense. Legolas could feel the waves of anger and doubt from his friend. But the archer looked away. He would not be part of this decision. If this moment would later be the basis of their downfall, he had no wish to commit himself to it. All eyes were upon the king save his, for he had closed them and swallowed his hurt. He felt terribly sick in mind and body.

"We will act, then," Aragorn finally decreed. Gimli smiled broadly, very pleased with his friend's decision. Éomer and Faramir exchanged a glance that was both relieved and excited. And Legolas simply looked down, fighting to keep the misty visions and haunting jeers from swarming his meager sense of self.  _I did not want this… Somebody help me…_

Holis was speaking. It took a taxing act of sheer will for the Elf to concentrate on the other. "Then we will aid you. I can offer five hundred men and ample supply. Is this sufficient to your cause?" Amity flooded the other's words, suggesting that if the proposal was not to Aragorn's liking, he would do whatever was in his power to remedy the king's disapproval.

But Aragorn only lifted his chin. "It is. Thank you," said the king quietly.

"Is one hour time enough to prepare?"

"It is."

"Then it is done. I will leave you to your work. Send word when you are ready." Aragorn nodded curtly, holding Holis' gaze for a moment as though he was searching one last time for hints of deception. However, there were clearly none to be found, and emperor turned. His retinue followed him from the gate, Ulpheth bowing lowly to the Lords of Gondor before trailing after his liege. The sound of orders filled the morning air, and though the language was unfamiliar, the sobriety and import of it was not.

When Holis was no longer in sight, Aragorn turned to Faramir. "How many men can we spare for this task?" he asked the steward.

Faramir's eyes grew distant with a quick calculation. "While maintaining heightened defense of the city? Three hundred perhaps," answered the man thoughtfully.

"Will that be enough?" inquired Gimli softly.

"With the aid of Rohan," clarified Éomer proudly. The young king leaned closer into the small circle they had formed. "Two hundred Riders in this city are at your disposal, Aragorn. You need only say the word."

The king nodded to Éomer's offering. He clenched his jaw, his gray eyes hard and vehement. "Good, then. We will leave immediately."

A flurry of sputtering denials came from behind them. "No, sire!" cried one of Aragorn's advisers. The man was balding, his form wiry and scrawny. Legolas was too distracted to remember his name. "You cannot leave the city on such a perilous venture. You have no heir, my Lord, no heir and without you, we have no king."

"That is nonsense," growled Aragorn threateningly, his glare piercing.

The man nearly whimpered under the fury of his king's ire, but he held his ground. "Please, sire, need I remind you that these Easterlings nearly assassinated you the night before last? You cannot leave the protection of Minas Tirith! On the field of war you are too conspicuous a target!" Aragorn's expression became savagely enraged. The man cowered like a mouse before a frustrated cat, but he held his ground. "Gondor has been burned before by allowing her king to foolishly partake in dangerous ventures. Legislation was designed to prevent such a disaster from happening again. My Lord, you are needed  _here_. The law forbids you to leave the city needlessly when there is no heir!"

"Then the law can be rewritten!" bellowed Aragorn angrily. The color fled the adviser's face as the sight of the enraged king, and the man stepped back frightfully. Legolas watched Aragorn's chest heave with breath. Such vexation was this to a man who prided himself on his own strength and prowess. The thought of remaining in the shadows while others fought was by no means appealing, and the Elf understood his friend's irritation. The hurt rose up in Legolas' throat like burning bile, though, and he averted his gaze once more. His friend's words rang in his ears.  _"I am_  king,  _Legolas. I cannot make such a grand decision based on an unsubstantiated dream!" Indeed, Aragorn, but you also cannot have this both ways._

Eventually Aragorn released a hot, short breath and turned away. His taut form relaxed a bit. A fretful silence endured, for all were a bit shocked at their normally strong and composed ruler's loss of temper. "Peace, Aragorn," Éomer said quietly. "I can lead this campaign."

Aragorn's shoulders slumped ever so slightly as Éomer laid a hand upon them. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Aye, Éomer. Forgive me my outburst. This entire situation… tries my patience."

"Your apologies are not needed," Gimli murmured compassionately, reaching up to grasp the king's arm. "You bear a difficult burden." Aragorn laid his hand over the Dwarf's own and squeezed it gratefully.

Faramir stepped forward. "I will command our forces in the field, my King," announced the steward. The wind brushed his hair across his face, and his eyes shone in angry determination.

Éomer looked to Faramir. "Are you well enough for such a task, brother?"

Faramir only nodded. He stood tall and proud. It was not a question of health or inclination, but rather of duty to those that had died under his lead in the last skirmish. It was clear from the strength he exuded that no amount of pleading or reason would alter Faramir's mindset. The king was bound by law to remain protected, but the steward was called by law to protect. Nothing would cause Faramir to stray from such an important responsibility, least of all the whims of a healing body.

The king of Rohan looked away from the steward. Legolas felt eyes settle upon him, and the Elf pulled himself from painful reverie to pay Éomer his attention. "And what say you, Legolas? Will you ride with us?"

The war of opposing thoughts and insufferable memory disappeared. Suddenly there was silence, deep and heavy, and Legolas was left reeling. All eyes had come to him, waiting expectantly for his verdict. He felt dizzy with confusion, the emptiness within was pecking at his composure. A breath later he managed to regain his tongue. "The Elves of Ithilien stand beside Gondor," he murmured softly, "as we always have."

How rotten the words sounded! How weak his voice was! Aragorn's gaze fell to Legolas, and within the gray orbs was now only grief and heart-pounding worry. The king opened his mouth to perhaps object, but Legolas fixed him with a silencing glare, and Aragorn abandoned whatever he had wanted to say. The man would not be so low or cruel as to insult Legolas' pride before their peers. A lasting emptiness commandeered the moment after. Whatever strength had driven Legolas in his angry gaze all but deserted, and the Elf was compelled to again look away. Shame, fetid and black, coated his feebly beating heart. The wind came to him, but it felt like probing fingers and cold lips.

Éomer had not been oblivious to the awkward moment, for his strength faltered and he wavered in his purpose. But then the young rider regained himself. He spoke words that were meant to add finality to the moment, though to Legolas they were little but an empty promise of the inevitable future. "Well, then. If it is war they want, then war we shall make. Let us go, for there is little time to spare."

* * *

To Legolas, the following hour hardly existed. Time lost all meaning as he rushed to prepare his people for the imminent battle. Under his command he had roughly seventy-five Elves, most of whom were archers. In the armory he had requisitioned as many arrows as possible. The supply he had procured was not of the high quality of Elven fletch, but their making was satisfactory enough and there was no time to alter them at any rate. The Elves were eager enough to hear his commands, for many of them were perplexed as to the cause behind both their summoning and this new battle. Legolas had explained to them the nature of the fight ahead of them in a clear, emotionless voice. Though they had remained stoic and quiet, as was the way with their kind, the Elf prince had noticed the subtle signs of anxiety and excitement. Their morale was high, at least, and that was an encouraging thought.

Valandil had approached him soon after, inquiring as to his well-being. As they were unable to hide their emotions from him, he was equally incapable of masking his distress. The young Elf's eyes had been warm and open, and Legolas had nearly faltered with the friendly questions. It was clear from his face how much Valandil revered him, and somehow Legolas felt that divulging the substance of his upset would not besmirch the other's view of him. Thus the allure to bear his hurt had once more been great, but he had not heeded the call of crying heart. It would do little good to burden the others before such an important battle. He was their lord above all else, and lords never faltered or appeared weak or lost. At least, those were the things his father had taught him.

Time had developed a strange relationship with him. Around his torment he had constructed a barricade, a wall composed of duty and denial that caged the memories and protected his mind from their barrage. As long as it remained strong, the minutes were fleeting. Much had to be done and he rushed through errands, concentrating on his tasks and not his turmoil. Then moments became breaths and beats, words and steps, and there were simply not enough of them. When that wall floundered, however, or when distraction led to listless and exhausted mental wandering, minutes suddenly grew to hours and hours to an eternity. He would drift in a sea of sorrow and spite, carried only by the pulse of the memories that beat about his mind. The more tired he became, the harder it was to stave off its incursion. And the grotesque mutilation of time left him disoriented. It was amazing and sad that such a thing could so easily rattle an Elf of his breeding and experience. It was almost as if all his long life had disappeared, and all that remained was the abuse and rape of the night before.  _"You are young for an Elf, barely wiser than a child. You have much left to learn about this world and yourself. Do not overestimate the strength of a body. Without the power of a good, wise will, it is but a reed ripping about precariously in a violent gale. Should the spirit be stained, this substance of life, immortal or not, will not easily recover. The flesh dies without the spirit."_  Lord Elrond had spoken those words to him once in Rivendell many years ago when he had asked of his wife's departure from Middle Earth. Arwen's mother, Celebrían, had suffered horribly at the hands of Orcs, and she had fled, seeking peace in Valinor. Now thinking on that awarded him no consolation. His soul did feel stained, putrefied, destroyed. And his body ached with pangs he had never before felt. How was he to combat this? Was there no hope for him now on these shores? If he stayed, would he fade?

_Go now. Leave this place and find your rest. There is nothing for you here._

But he brushed aside these unsettling thoughts. They had no place in the mind of a warrior or a lord. And those were the things he must be. Those were the roles required of him. That was what Aragorn needed of him, and no matter how angered he was with his dear friend, he would not fail him.

Now he entered the Houses of Healing. The hour was nearly gone. His feet had carried him here, for his mind had once again slipped away into a morass of vacillation and reminiscence. He wondered at the lost hour and his breaking heart. Vaguely he knew why he had come to this place. To consider the implications of it left him hurting, but there was no time to do anything else.

Lady Ioreth spotted him immediately. She held his gaze and immediately understood his intentions. Word had quickly spread all over Minas Tirith that a great host was departing to face the enemy. Soldiers had returned to homes and loved ones to bid a stoic farewell, even though all knew with undeniable finality that some, perhaps many, of them would not return. He was doing the same. "She is here, my Prince, playing with my others." The woman sighed gently. "I will keep her here with me in your absence. No harm will come to her, this I swear to you." She held his gaze a moment, searching his acceptance. When she had it, she smiled weakly. "Shall I fetch her for you?"

Legolas' voice failed him suddenly, so he numbly nodded. Ioreth's eyes flashed sadly and sympathetically before she left with a swish of her skirts. The Elf prince stood, and time moved around him. He was misplaced in the unending rush of seconds and minutes and hours to eternity. Immortality granted him such exclusion, such superiority. But he was among men, men that knew the suffering of death as something expected and innate to existence, men that passed from life as easily and as simply as they came into it. In this place, within these walls, there was a constant struggle for survival, and it was so  _common_ , so utterly intrinsic to everything that was mortality, that Legolas felt terribly wrong to stand and watch and pass judgment on such a thing. It was not his to understand. It never would be.

There was a clamor of noise and talking that distracted him. Fethra stampeded into the entrance and, upon seeing him, her face broke in a gleeful smile. She ran to him. "Leglass! Leglass!"

The pain of the attack and of his thoughts fell away as he knelt gracefully and embraced her. He would not let the substance of their making divide them. "My little one," he said softly. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and he hugged her tightly. The pulse of her tiny heart against his was powerful and soothing. Her presence was cool and refreshing. He closed his eyes and lost himself in the peace she gave him, his spirit quivering in grateful relief. At that moment he regretted so much. He regretted being too strong and not strong enough. He regretted his pride, his pain, his duty. He hated the choices he had made. Perhaps there was some place in this world to which they could escape where he could cherish this serenity. Where pain and fear and shame could never find him. As his battered heart embraced this moment, he wished he could take back his vow of aid and stay behind with Fethra. He wished time would shift and stretch again, turning this sweet moment into a treasured eternity. He wished nothing would part them.

But this could not last forever. He opened his eyes. "I must leave you."

She pulled back. Her face fell drastically. Legolas lifted her chin with his finger. "Why, Leglass?" she whispered.

He gave her a weak smile. "You made me promise, remember?" he said softly. "I swore to protect the good people, so nobody else would die." The logic sounded right and strong to him, and it reassured him of his place. "I cannot break that promise."

Wide green eyes twinkled. "You're leaving to fight the bad men who hurt Momma?"

"Yes."

Fethra did not smile, but nor did she frown. It was as if she had all along expected such an act from him. Her adoration for him shone in her gaze as she watched his face. "Will you come back?" she asked, her voice mostly a wistful whisper.

He forced a smile to grace his lips. "Of course," he vowed.

The child was still for a moment, as if wondering at what he had sworn to her. A child's mind, though inexperienced and naïve at the workings of life, was a powerful thing. Simplicity was a treasure of youth. She did not comprehend the gravity of what he knew, of what he felt, of what had been done to him and what he would do in turn. But she did not need to understand to offer him her heart. Small fingers dug through her dress and pulled the necklace she bore forth from the lavender cloth. She held it up, looking at it for a moment, before innocently turning her gaze back to Legolas. "Papa took this with him when he went to stop the bad men," she said softly. "You can take it, too."

Shock mulled over him as he eyed the glowing red stone of the pendant. Fethra stepped closer to him, struggling to free the tangled silver chain from the folds of her clothes. When she could not get it loose, Legolas assisted her, pulling the long chain from her collar. Then the little girl held it. It glimmered in the morning light beautifully as it dangled from the chain. No words were shared as she dropped it over his head, slipping the small trinket down his hair. A moment later it rested against his gray jerkin, peacefully glowing over his heart.

Legolas stared at it in a mixture of wonderment and confusion until Fethra grabbed his face. Then, sobbing, she launched herself into his arms and buried her face into his shoulder. He rubbed her soothingly. "You have to come back. I don't want to be alone. You're my papa now, Leglass."

The Elf leaned back a bit, peeling her from him gently so that he could look into her face. "I am not your father, Fethra," he declared softly but firmly. "I would not want to replace him. But I  _do_  love you and I  _will_  come back." She sniffled, reassured by the smile he offered. He wiped away her tears with his thumbs, cupping her round face with his hands. "Now, mind Lady Ioreth. She will take care of you."

She nodded, fearful and wide-eyed. Then Legolas kissed her brow and hugged her tightly one last time. "Be safe, my child," he whispered in Elvish into the curly mop of her hair. He did not want to let go. He did not want to leave her! A million worries, a million fears and hopes and doubts clouded his thoughts, and he tightened his grasp. She had become so important to him that he could not bear to release her.

But he did. Fethra's lips pressed his cheek wetly before she pulled away and tumbled back into the full skirts of Ioreth. The healer's hand came to rest upon the crown of the child's head, and she offered the Elf a reassuring and knowing nod.

Legolas felt cold and empty as he slowly stood. His body creaked and ached in protest, yet he ignored the pain and embraced a bit of hope. Fethra peeked from behind a wall of Ioreth's skirt. "Bye, Leglass," she said.

He smiled and swallowed the lump hurting his throat. "Farewell, Fethra."

* * *

The entrance to the Gateway was chaotic. All about men and Elves were preparing for the distant encounter that awaited them. Horses were everywhere, neighing and whickering anxiously, for the animals sensed clearly the trepidation saturating the cool air. Troops assumed positions for a march, the men tensely exchanging worried glances and whispered words with their neighbors. A great cacophony shattered the peace of the morning, alerting all to the preparations for war. Control over the frenzied motion and exhilarated noise was precarious. More than that, faith that this endeavor would put an end to all they feared was fleeting.

Legolas pushed his way through the assembly, stepping quickly and lightly. His eyes scanned the area, and with little difficulty he located his company. The Elf briskly walked to them. His quiver and bow felt unusually heavy upon his back, but he was comforted by their familiar weight. Fethra's necklace he had stuffed beneath his jerkin and tunic so that it rested against his bare chest. It felt warm and pleasant to his skin.

Valandil spotted him. The Elf held his mount by the reins. "All is ready, my Lord," reported the Elf. His eyes danced in enthusiasm.

"Good," Legolas responded. "I have learned from King Éomer that we are to guard the rear of the army. Inform everyone, please."

Valandil nodded curtly. He face tightened with annoyed excitement. "Perhaps we are better placed, Legolas. Archers are ineffective from the back lines." A tinge of resentment had found its way into the other's voice.

Legolas only offered a disarming, small smile. "I am sure the king has his reasons. For now, let us just follow his requests."

The younger Elf flushed a bit in embarrassment. Had Legolas been not so weary and pained, perhaps he would have thought it amusing. "Aye." Then Valandil mounted his horse gracefully and relayed his lord's commands to the Elves that stood ready beside the rows and rows of Gondor's soldiers.

Velathir came to him as well. The peaceful Elf bowed to his lord, the breeze catching his dark hair. "My Lord, is there anything you wish of me in your absence?" he asked humbly.

Legolas nodded. "Have the rest of the colony evacuated. Take what supplies we can. Destroy what we cannot," he ordered quietly. The thought dampened his already low spirits. Commanding the retreat of one's own establishment was shameful indeed, and his heart strained that it not be so. All for which they had worked… But he was not so unfamiliar with losing ground. His father had dealt with the pain of retreat for centuries. "Be quick about it as well. I will have no one die for a collection of rock and dreams."

"Of course, my Lord." They stood in silence a moment. Then Velathir laid a fist over his heart. His head bowed, he opened his hand to his lord in a timeless gesture of respect and hope. "May the Valar protect you, Prince Legolas," he said softly in Elvish.

Heartened again, the archer returned the salute. "Only if they guard you as well, my friend." Velathir smiled warmly before bowing again and taking his leave. The Elf prince stood a moment longer until he could no longer distinguish the tall Elf from the crowd of people. Then he continued, seeing Gimli and Arod waiting patiently a bit closer to the Gateway. He drew a deep breath to steady himself, embracing the cold apathy that was slowly claiming him. He did not want to feel any more. He could make so little sense of what he thought that indifference seemed the safest course. He readily welcomed the calming oblivion.

The Dwarf grunted as he neared. "You are late, Master Elf," he declared boisterously.

The Elf offered a wan smile. "Nay, you are early, Master Dwarf."

The two held a stony look for a brief moment. But then Gimli could further this farce no longer and smiled. "This beast of yours is as jittery as a colt! Speak some sense to him; he tries upon my nerves."

Legolas shook his head, a tiny smile creeping to his pale face at Gimli's stubbornness. Once, years ago, he had told Gimli that it was the Dwarf's presence that so riled Arod, and if the stout warrior only relaxed about the gentle beast himself, all would be well. The Elf doubted the day in which Gimli and Arod made their peace would ever come. He laid a hand on Arod's muzzle, staring into the stallion's dark, depthless eyes. Legolas saw what others did not. His other came to stroke the horse's neck fondly, assuring the animal that he was well. Arod was tense, but he calmed immediately under his master's touch.

"I will never understand your love for such a foul beast," mused Gimli as Legolas leaned tiredly into Arod's chest. The horse dipped his head upon the Elf's shoulder as he stroked his mane. "A simple touch can seduce the most flippant and fickle animal into obedience. It is not natural."

Legolas smiled thinly. "Neither is fashioning great halls from stone and rock with a pick and mortar. You reshape the face of the world to your own silly whims. What could be more unnatural than that?"

The words would have been scathing to a stranger's ears, but Gimli only grunted and shook his head, leaning upon the shaft of his axe. "Yet you live in such places, do you not, Elf? Do you not thank the stone when it blocks the bitter wind or shelters you from the drenching rain? Do you not appreciate its strength when you are weary and in need of security?"

 _More than you can know, Gimli._  "Point taken," remarked Legolas. The banter eased the weight upon him, and he was glad for it.

There was sound behind them. Aragorn, Faramir, and Éomer approached. Éomer was garbed in plate mail, the crest of Rohan etched proudly into the chest plate. His sword rattled at his hip as he walked, his helmet tucked under one arm. The steward was adorned in lighter chain mail, and a white surcoat covered his armor. He bore no quiver or bow, carrying only his long sword and a dagger strapped to his belt.

Aragorn nodded to Legolas. The two friends held each other's eyes for a moment, searching for forgiveness, for acceptance, for some sort of absolution to ease the wounds they had themselves inflicted.

Éomer glanced between the Elf and the Dwarf. "Is all in order, Legolas?"

The prince turned from Aragorn, abandoning his search for peace, and answered the king of Rohan. "Yes. We are ready."

Éomer settled his helmet atop his head. The silver shone brightly in the morning sun, the metal without crack or blemish. The head of a horse garnished the front of the piece, and long flaxen horsehair extended from the pinnacle of the helmet like a mane. "Good. Let us be off." The king turned and headed to the group of mounted men crowding the left of the street.

A moment later a call went through the mass of warriors, and trumpets sounded. Faramir grasped Aragorn brotherly on the arm before turning and heading towards his own legion. Legolas grabbed Gimli's arm and gave him a boost, helping the grumbling Dwarf atop Arod. The skittish beast appeared to want to bolt and topple the unsteady creature atop him, but the horse remained still as Gimli settled.

Then the Elf methodically went about tightening their saddlebags and securing their supplies. Yet he felt Aragorn's gaze strongly upon him, boring into his back as though it was a ramming force. Legolas' gooseflesh prickled. He could feel Aragorn imploring him to see reason, to stay behind, to not fight like this. Yet the man would not speak. The cold silence endured, neither friend willing to concede. Both hearts yearned for restoration of brotherly love, of their connection, but neither could submit to defeat. Pride was simply too strong an obstacle.

Time ran out. They were moving. Aragorn grabbed Legolas' shoulder and pulled the Elf around. Before Legolas could react the man swept his friend into a tight embrace. It was the release they needed, and the archer succumbed, dismissing hi screaming, enraged ego and wrapping his arms about Aragorn. "Be safe," Aragorn whispered in his ear.

The king parted quickly and drew a short, weak breath that wavered with a stifled sob. The man turned watery eyes to Gimli, grasping the Dwarf's knee firmly and nodding. After that, Aragorn turned and left them.

Legolas stood still for what seemed to him to be forever. The wind moved about his tingling body. He could feel each tiny hair on his skin twitch. Each beat of his heart was loud, each breath cold and stabbing. His body grew heavy, and his stomach clenched painfully. Grief threatened him, but he would not give it reign. The dream prodded at his consciousness once more, taking sadistic advantage of his weakened state. He refused to pay its insistences his attention. He was no prisoner to fear!  _I will fight this because I must! I will defeat this!_

"Legolas?"

The Elf turned at Gimli's concerned voice. He shook his head as if to clear it and sucked in a deep breath. The Dwarf's worried face relaxed a bit as the light returned to Legolas' eyes. Gimli said, "Let us be off else we be left behind."

The great, loud rhythm of marching feet filled the air. Horses cried and men shouted. The army was passing them, heading through the gaping Gateway where the Haradrim waited. Legolas swallowed his nausea and pulled himself gingerly atop Arod. The animal whickered and turned.

And then they too were moving, following the companies of Gondor and Rohan and Harad. Banners flew high with pride as they parted with the gates. The battle campaign was beginning. Across the field an army was forming. Like a rainbow the standards meshed. The golden serpent in its bed of red. The green flag of the House of Eorl, upon which a silver horse leapt over interlocking spears. The white banner of the House of the Stewards, glistening like pure clouds with a new addition of three black stars and an Elvish calling. The White Tree billowing on a field of sable, its own series of astral heraldry crowning the pride of all Gondor. The leaf of the House of Thranduil entwined with the sunshaped flower  _elanor_  of Lothlórien and seated upon the blues and yellows of Imladris, all Elvish nations blending in a new standard for Ithilien.

A great host coming together in alliance and marching to meet its destiny.


	14. A Final Charge

Legolas watched as the flags struggled in the wind. Tethered to their posts, they wriggled and writhed against their bindings, as if desperate to escape an inevitable dark fate. But the ties were too tight, and destiny was unavoidable. The earth and its forces oft knew more of the future than did the minds of mortals or even Elves. Were these breezes seeking to save them from destruction, to caution them against brash action, to warn them from ignorance and assumption? The Elf knew naught save this: the banners on all sides ripped and screamed in the wind.

He looked down with a weary sigh. The sun was beginning to set; the better part of two days had escaped them during their march. Nearly thirty leagues lay between Minas Tirith and Emyn Nimsîr, the distance made greater by the obstacle of the White Mountains. They had rounded the edge of the chain, and from there they had adopted a westerly path across the wide, rolling plains of Lossarnach. Despite the size of their force, they moved quite quickly along the flat ground, for the fields were gentle to their feet and easy to traverse. However, their road had turned malevolent upon reaching the Sirith. The river was not terribly wide or deep, but it was prone to flooding its surrounding lowlands. The once amiable and firm fields turned to giant plots of muddy grass, and their pace had slowed considerably. The anticipation that had previously served to lift morale and provide the troops energy had utterly vacated them in the face of such damp drudgery, and both man and horse had wearied quickly. There had only been one small bridge across the shallow river. The mounted warriors could ford the expanse easily enough, but the troops were less fortunate and only through much waiting and planning could they all cross the river. The oliphaunts had lumbered over the wetlands last, their massive forms shaking the ground with the force of each step. The entire matter had taken painful hours, and each man and Elf had felt the press of time upon them as they anxiously waited for the transit's completion.

Still, despite these impediments, they had reached Emyn Nimsîr without much incident. Now the allied forces rested in the land between the rivers while their lords planned and schemed for the upcoming battle.

Gimli cursed beneath his breath as he wiped the mud caked upon his boots onto the blades of long, green grass that surrounded them. "Confound this land!" The Dwarf's face reddened in irritation. "It is more a swamp than a field!" Legolas said nothing to the comment, but the Elf sympathized with his friend's annoyance. Blue eyes swept their surroundings with much disdain and doubt. This land would be difficult to defend. Though the ground here was relatively firm beneath them, the terrain became a morass that sucked at feet and hindered movement the closer one moved towards the water. Reports from the opposite shore, where the River Celos made its path, were much the same, to the chagrin of all. Guarding the banks would be a sore and vicious task. Legolas sighed wearily. Though Éomer had not yet said as much, the Elf knew without a doubt that that formation would be assumed. The two rivers joined together some miles south, forming a wider, impassable stretch of water. If the Easterlings were to come, they would do so from the east or west. The success of the defense of the two rivers and their shoddy bridges would mean victory or defeat. Triumph or annihilation. The Elf prince did not enjoy the thought.

Emyn Nimsîr itself was nestled perhaps a league north. The great, tall White Mountains glowed in the afternoon sun, their ageless stone appearing a soothing blue in the haze. They were distant sentinels, rising powerfully and majestically from the earth, shielding the small hamlet in an embrace of impenetrable splendor and grandeur. The snowy peaks continued as far as his eye could see in both directions, marching east to join the great Misty Mountains, reaching west as well to extend their protection to Minas Tirith. The land swept down from their base, good and fertile, and upon it the tiny farming village rested. Hardly two hundred people lived within its boundaries, and they were simple folk who had never before been touched by war. Past unrests had left them blessedly ignorant of the workings outside their little world. Thus, they had been quite shocked and frightened to see the massive army marching upon their peaceful farms and estates. Not long before had Éomer and Faramir ridden into the town proper to explain to the denizens the nature of the situation. Ignorance begot prejudice and indignation, for the town leaders were less than willing to aid in the defense of their home. Apparently they believed that Gondor's forces would lead to them the enemy; battle upon their lands would only destroy crops and hurt the fertility of their farms. They did not want to be involved in this conflict, fearing that perhaps in the face of such a harsh reality that their previous peaceful way of life could never again be restored. Legolas could not help but understand their worries. Nothing destroyed innocence so irreparably well as the throes and toils of war.

Even so, for the denizens of Emyn Nimsîr, there was no choice. Farmers and stable boys became soldiers, and the town reluctantly offered what it could in terms of defense. Legolas had watched them don old, rusty armor and grasp poorly made swords and spears with shaking fingers. Fear had glowed in their eyes, and the Elf was reminded of the eve of the Battle of Helm's Deep. There as well he had felt a terrible pang of despair for the sake of these innocent people. He knew deep inside the dark recesses of his heart that, should the Easterlings reach the town, it would fall quickly and easily to their enemy's swift and brutal whims. He hoped it would not come to that.

 _Perhaps it will not._  The Elf allowed himself this small speck of hope. Despite doubts and reservations, the soldiers of Harad and Gondor appeared to be cooperating nicely. Under strict orders from their emperor, the Southrons were more than willing to abide by the authority of the Lords of Gondor. Holis himself had not accompanied their expedition, deferring to a custom of the Harad's government that was similar to the law that prevented Aragorn from leading this campaign. Still, the Haradrim acted as though their ruler oversaw every moment, and the company of Gondor was quite impressed with the power of Holis' words and the strength of his command. Noticeably absent as well from the ranks was Imrahil and his men. Only when they were some distance from Minas Tirith did Legolas' distressed mind realize the Prince of Dol Amroth had not appeared earlier at the Gateway despite Aragorn's summons. He had subsequently questioned Faramir about the matter during their journey and had been dismayed to learn that late during the night a messenger bird had reached the White City bearing word that Imrahil's wife had taken ill. The ambush upon Imrahil's forces had occurred approximately half-way between Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth, and the prince had apparently sent one of the four surviving riders back to his manor bearing his son's body while he and his younger child continued to the White City. Their arrival had sent the Lady of Dol Amroth into a fit of fever and grief. Legolas knew very little of her, but he had heard in gossip once or twice that she was hale of neither heart nor body, and she became sick easily and without warning. Imrahil had, with the king's permission, departed Minas Tirith upon the dawn, intending to race back to Dol Amroth and tend to his ailing lady. He had left Prince Amrothos to represent him in Aragorn's court until he was able to return. Guilt had plagued Legolas with Faramir's explanation. He had been so concerned with his own plights that the suffering of others had become a distant matter. Poor Imrahil! To lose a son and now suffer the pains of a sick wife…

Arod's ears twitched, drawing Legolas' attention, and the Elf turned. Faramir was approaching, picking his way gingerly through the tall grasses. The steward led Hasufel by the reins, the animal strutting quite proudly behind his master. Legolas could not keep a small grin from gracing his face at the sight of his friend. Hasufel had always been a rather mulish beast, but the great, gray warhorse particularly despised water. He had outright refused to ford the River Sirith, skittered about the muddy shore as though the clean currents were poisonous. No amount of prodding could convince the stubborn horse to cross the river, and when Faramir's patience failed him, the steward had simply cursed his mount for his foul and exasperating disposition and attempted to get down, intending obviously to take the horse by the bridle and lead him across the river. Hasufel, of course, grew quite indignant over the ranger's harsh words and reared at the most inopportune moment. Faramir had been spilled from his saddle, landing rather unceremoniously into the thick, gooey mud that lined the bank with a loud  _splat_.

Even now he was covered in it, the muck clinging to his once pristine surcoat and coating his hair and face. The sticky stuff had even found its way into the tiny chinks of his chain mail. Faramir had had no time to clean himself, and the dirt was not drying in the humid air, leaving him decidedly a mess.

"Éomer has ridden to the west bank," Faramir explained, slightly winded, when finally he reached his Elven and Dwarven companions. "He should return shortly." He pushed a tangled, muddy lock of hair behind his ear as his gray eyes roved the camp. The men rested with their respective companies, taking a late afternoon meal. The heat had risen during their march, and the air was very heavy with clinging moisture. Tired, tense bodies had settled among the grasses, seeking their cooling touch, and a gentle breeze set the greens to motion like rolling waves. Surrounding them were the battalions of Gondor and Ithilien. Farther west, spread across the wide field, were those of Harad. In the distance the oliphaunts stood tall, providing shade for their weary riders.

This place was still verdant, even with the coming of autumn, and summer stuck to the land as perspiration did to the body. The grasses were too tall, and they would make movement difficult. The ground was firm enough, but only a mile separated hard earth from watery and uncertain terrain. They would have little room in which to maneuver in battle. If the fight shifted suddenly, if they lost control of the situation, they could very easily slip onto terrain that would hinder their efforts. Faramir squinted "This land is terrible," he muttered lowly.

Gimli nodded, pleased that another agreed with his previous assessment. "It will be a wretched chore to defend," commented the Dwarf rather matter-of-factly. He looked to Legolas as the Elf absently patted Hasufel's neck. "The enemy has chosen a spot that denies either side a clear advantage."

Legolas released a long, slow breath. "It is more dangerous than we imagine," he declared, turning dull blue eyes upon Faramir. "When night comes and the air cools, this plain will be blanketed in a soupy mist. It will come down from the mountains and sweep over us. We will be left blind." The words left a foul taste in his mouth, but he knew with striking finality that what he said was true. The air was wet and the winds were settling. Such conditions bred fog easily.

Faramir nodded slightly, his own expression twisted and downcast with the unpleasant thought. Legolas held his gaze for a moment, but the setting sun was directly behind the ranger's head and its glaring light made his head throb. He averted his eyes when the pain became too vexing. Exhaustion was slowing him, he knew, and often his mind would fail him. When it did, he was left vulnerable to idle thought and the endless torment of memory. He did not know how much longer he could withstand the weight of the crushing reality of what had been done to him. He feared sleep, dreaded its calling oblivion, hated the whispers of peace and rest with which it seduced his battered body. But he was weakening, and he was so very tired. His eyes slipped shut against his will.

Sound reached his ears, a voice laced with friendly concern. It took him a moment to focus again, the vacuum that had claimed his him slow to relinquish its grasp. "Legolas, you look ill." It was Faramir. Hands came to grasp the Elf's shoulders. "I worry at your pallor, and your eyes are dull and feverish. Legolas?"

The Elf snapped from his momentary delirium, furious with himself for such an obvious lapse. He nearly lurched, dizziness overcoming his composure and sending the world into nauseating circles. His side ached mercilessly, and only Faramir's steadying hand kept his beaten body upright. The long ride had done little for his sore muscles and bruised ribs, and he was just beginning to realize how much he suffered. But he only swallowed his hurt and stammered, "I am well, Faramir."

Faramir was not satisfied with the statement, for aggravation glowed in his eyes and his jaw tightened. However, Gimli spoke before the ranger could, and his baritone voice was riddled with furious worry. "Stupid Elf! You are  _not_  well. You have said this for days, and it is naught but a misleading guise! Speak the truth, else I wring it from your silly neck!"

All sense of control fled Legolas in a flame of his rage. "What does it matter?" he hissed, turning blazing eyes upon Gimli. "The truth will do nothing to ease my agony. No medicine can make well my wounds. Turn your prying eyes and damning questions elsewhere; I want none of it!"

Then they were silent. Gimli's face was screwed tight in his own anger and hurt. His dark eyes glowed in a burning desire to understand and help. It was more than obvious seeing Legolas so miserable distressed him, and the Elf's fury all but melted away at his friend's innocent devotion. Without the strength of his ire, he was left shaking, and he thought for a moment he might simply collapse. Hasufel nipped at his hand. The feel of the horse's warm, wet lips upon his skin jerked him from his daze. Desperately he searched for something to say, for some apology that might ease the weight of the crushing silence his echoing words had created. But he could think of nothing, his mind lethargic and fumbling, and tears burned in his eyes.

"Legolas," Faramir said began, "please, you must be candid with us. It is too important a matter to hide behind pride." The ranger's face was resolute.

"Pride?" Legolas repeated harshly. "This is no act of pride, Faramir. I hardly have left such a thing."

Gimli grabbed the Elf's arm. Though the grasp was not meant to be painful, the tight hold felt bruising to Legolas. "You speak in riddles again, Elf. I will not have it! Hiding your hurts in the safety of Minas Tirith is one matter, and though it grieved me, I said naught about your foolery for the sake of your honor. But now we face battle, and I will not let you falter because of wounds that have not healed rightly!"

Something inside Legolas pulsed in sudden and violent fury. "How would you know that?" he demanded, his voice heated. Gimli's hard visage dropped almost immediately, and he looked away, as though ashamed. The wrathful Elf turned his accusing eyes upon Faramir, but the steward as well averted his gaze, dropping his hands from Legolas' shoulders and bowing his head slightly. Then realization came over the Elf, and cold and heat devoured him at once, leaving his body and mind reeling. "Aragorn told you," he whispered, his ashen lips hardly moving with the numb words. Betrayal, deeper and darker than any feeling he had ever known, stabbed into him, and he nearly doubled over he felt so terribly sick.

The quiet that ensued was awkward and hurtful. Legolas clenched his jaw to prevent its shaking and swallowed the sob itching in his throat. His whole body pounded and drummed in agony. Over and over again he sank into despair and memory only to be ripped into the heat of his anger. How could Aragorn have done such a thing to him? How could his dearest friend have violated his privacy and betrayed his trust? Vaguely he heard Faramir speaking, but the other's words did little to ease him. "He only asked that we pay you our care. He thought perhaps you have been afflicted with a toxin he could not easily detect, and it would hinder you in battle." Legolas closed his eyes and looked away. He knew not what to think or how to feel. Faramir sighed. "He said little, Legolas. He did not break your confidence." The other paused. "And I know this is not the time for such a thing, but should you need to speak of what troubles you…"

"Do not say that."  _Do you want to know the darkness inside my heart? Do you want to see this ugliness? Do you want to feel the pain of violation, of helplessness, of betrayal? My light is gone… Gone!_  But he did not say these things. He did not have the strength to admit their truth. Releasing a quivering breath was all he could do to stifle the scream building within his chest. Blinking was all he could do to hold back the burning tears filling his eyes. Living was all he could do to ignore the agony tearing him from within. "Let us speak of this no longer." His whisper was wistful, as though by dropping the subject the entire horrid matter might simply disappear.

Gimli and Faramir exchanged glances. Legolas did not miss this doubtful, suspicious action, and again anger flared up within him.  _I am not mad! Do not treat me so!_  Then the steward shifted questioning, hesitant eyes upon the Elf. "I do not doubt you. Please understand. You look terribly feverish. At least let us see to it."

 _Feverish?_  But before his muddled mind could consider that, Faramir reached toward him, aiming to lay an examining hand across his brow. Fear jolted the Elf and Legolas backpedaled, recoiling from the seemingly innocent action. "Do not touch me!"

A queer stasis overcame them, as though time itself was shocked into a paralyzed stupor by the incredible moment that had just transpired. The closest of friends had been seemingly torn apart, and for no apparent reason. Faramir watched Legolas with wide, confused, and frightened eyes, slowly lowering his hand to his side. They were silent, each wondering what now to do or say, each praying that the horrible situation was somehow not real. Legolas felt his spirit wither. What sort of monster was he becoming? These were his dear friends, his comrades with who he had spent much time in merry-making and in battle. These were his brothers! They meant him no harm! "By the Valar, Legolas," Faramir gasped, "what is wrong with you?"

He had no answer. Would that this endless storm of torture in his head end, he could think! Thankfully, he was saved from the oppressive weight of the question by the thunder of many approaching horses. All eyes turned to the west where Éomer approached, followed by a group of Rohirrim. Green banners blew in the wind as they slowed their gallop. Alongside him rode Ulpheth and a few of the Haradrim. The party stopped before them, and Éomer gracefully dismounted his tall horse. The beast's name was Firefoot, and like Hasufel and Arod, he was a mighty stallion, bred strong and beautiful. The King of Rohan patted his steed affectionately before approaching his friends.

If Éomer detected the melancholic confusion claiming the man, the Elf, and the Dwarf, he did not make mention of it. "The western bank is significantly less flooded, but I fear the land is poor indeed." The young man's blond hair clung to his temples with the sheen of sweat. His face glowed vibrantly. "What think you, Faramir, of our options?"

The steward had recovered from his shock, though the ghost of hurt still floated about his eyes. "Have scouts been sent south?" he questioned.

"Aye," responded Ulpheth. "Thus far there have been no reports of the enemy's approach."

Faramir shook his head darkly, his eyes clouded in thought. "Surely they will come soon if they mean to come at all," he remarked. "The rivers pose a treacherous obstacle at night, and the surrounding lands will be difficult to cross."

"Perhaps they know not of the terrain of this place," offered Gimli thoughtfully, looking up to Faramir for the steward's thoughts on his conjecture.

Ulpheth's dark face grew malignant, his black eyes glittering in anger. "Nay, they are well aware of it," he declared spitefully. His voice was low and rumbling, seething in hatred. "They are a cunning lot. Never would they venture into a situation they did not fully understand or control. Surely they chose this town knowing of the rotten state of the land. Surely they intended to reach this place before us."

Faramir nodded. "I agree. Imagine the advantage given to the force that holds the dry field?" The steward turned, sweeping his outstretched fingers across the grasses. The flat land spread for nearly a league between the two swollen rivers. "Were our places reversed, we would have to trudge across the swamps and ford the river under fire. Our men would reach this place weakened and wearied. Yes, they  _knew_  of this. It would have been a grand trap, and we would have fallen easily."

Gimli smiled. "Now  _we_  shall surprise  _them_ ," announced the Dwarf, his gruff voice lightened by enthusiasm and joy at this fortunate turn of events. In that moment there was a bit of hope. Forever, it seemed, had the Easterlings held an advantage over them. Always the enemy was ahead of them, plotting, entrapping, leaving a bloody wake in their campaign. This was the opportunity their vengeful hearts had long desired.

"From which direction will they come?" wondered another of Éomer's lieutenants, the young man turning inquisitive eyes to his king.

It was Faramir who answered, however. "We have no indication that they will come on one front. I would have to postulate that a charge from the east or west is more likely, as the two rivers join to form quite a monster with strong currents and deep trenches. Approaching from the south would be foolhardy at best."

Éomer's eyes were warm with anticipation. "I believe the best course of action is to create three lines of defense," explained the king. He stepped into the circle of men, leaving Firefoot to graze. "Between our forces we have roughly two hundred archers. The land slopes slightly as the swamp recedes on both banks, though this incline is slightly sharper on the west side. If we form a line of archers on each bank, we can thin the strength of their charge. It will be as you say, Faramir. They will arrive wearied by a march through the bogs, and certainly we can diminish the strength of their advance before it even reaches Emyn Nimsîr."

"A fine idea, my Lord," spoke Elfhelm, the newly appointed Marshall of the East-mark. The man's face was placid, but his hands were balled tightly into fists about his horse's reins.

Éomer nodded and continued. "Behind the archers we place the infantry, roughly three hundred on each side." The young man pointed to each horizon, east and west, visualizing how the expanse of men would appear when his plan was enacted. "These we stretch wide and long, creating a barricade of sorts. Should the Easterlings breach the swamps on either side, we will be prepared."

"Is so thin a defense wise, my Lord?" questioned Ulpheth. He seemed a bit perplexed and worried. "If we are flanked, it will be a simple matter of time for the enemy to swarm upon the field and attack one side from both fronts."

"That is why we will build a third line of riders in the center of the field. Should either side fail and the Easterlings reach the plains, the riders will immediately attack them. They will not be able to see such a force from their vantage. Cavalry will be off no use in wetlands. And the town's militia can guard the village itself. I have already instructed the citizens to remain inside and seal all windows and doors. Hopefully it will not come to the point where their aid will be required." Éomer released a slow breath and turned steady eyes about the group. "With this plan, we can monitor all entrances into Emyn Nimsîr and hopefully repel any attack."

Faramir gazed about his wife's brother, his eyes thoughtful. "Why not simply destroy one of the bridges? By doing that we force them to ford the river, giving us both ample opportunity to plan properly and build our defenses appropriately," suggested the steward.

"I would hesitate in that action," Gimli remarked. The stout creature shook his head slowly. "It would hinder them, yes, but should we need to escape, we will have no means to do so."

The others realized the logic of that argument immediately, offering a series of nods in response to the Dwarf's assertion. Éomer said, "It is an option open to us, should we need it. For now, I suggest we move quickly to form our defense. We know not what time is still available to us." The young man turned his gaze to Faramir. It was a strange situation. Neither truly had command over the other, for Gondor and Rohan were two separate nations and their governments existed exclusive onto themselves. Yet Faramir had silently and without argument submitted himself to Éomer's authority. The young king had proudly proclaimed that he would lead this campaign, after all. "Does this plan agree with you, Faramir?"

The steward's eyes remained glazed a moment more in contemplation. Then the gray orbs hardened and focused upon Éomer. "Aye, it does."

"Good," answered the king. "You will command the western front. Legolas, what say you of it?"

Legolas frankly had not been paying attention. The disease of despair and hurt afforded him little in the way of concentration, and Éomer's question alarmed him. He nearly jerked in surprise, forcing his wayward senses to pay heed to his surroundings. "I am with you," he murmured after a beat. His mouth was dry and the words were thick to his ears.

Éomer nodded. "Then the eastern front is under your authority. Come, we have little time to act, and I do not want to be caught off our guard."

* * *

In a matter of an hour all was ready. Because horses were more of a hindrance than a boon on the wetlands, the animals had been herded into the center of the field where the Riders of Rohan were stationed. Upon the eastern bank were many lines of archers and infantry, crouched among the long grasses, laying in wait for the appearance of their foe. The reeds provided cover enough, obscuring the bodies and bows from distant perception. All the banners had been lowered, their bearers donning swords instead of standards. The wind had abandoned the plains sometime earlier, leaving everything painfully silent and motionless. The men shifted restlessly every so often, and the rustle of the grasses would betray their location momentarily. The Elves remained perfectly still, only the roaming of their attentive, bright eyes indicative of their presence. Both man and Elf alike were riddled with tension, though, and all senses were anxiously trained upon the River Sirith and eastern wetlands that lay before them.

Legolas held his breath as he crouched upon the ground. He did not like waiting for an attack, and his acute senses were becoming even further muddled by his exhaustion. He knew that concentration now was crucial, for they would have but one opportunity to surprise the enemy and it was a moment they could not afford to miss in distraction or hesitation. Normally he was a warrior of endless patience, and talent and hundreds of years of experience afforded him a certain peace that eased both mind and body before a potentially hazardous situation. It was a gift of his kind, this stoicism, and he had been trained dutifully by his father, his older brothers, and Mirkwood's master archers to find within himself peace and see and act through it. It was not so different from standing completely still and sighting down the shaft of an arrow, seeking the instance of perfect calm in which to release. One twitch, one tremble of a finger or arm, one misplaced breath or blink could affect an arrow's path and ruin a precise trajectory. At that moment the bend of the bow put no strain upon the muscles, and every bit of the self fell away. He could sense all. There was no air, but he did not need to breathe. There was so much to see and feel, but he was not distracted. There was naught but the tip of the arrow and the target. In the emptiness the trees would whisper to him, the winds would sing the intricacies of their paths, and all of Middle Earth would pulse around him. And in that moment, a tranquility that few could understand came to him. Talent in archery gifted him with more than quick eyes and incredible strength. He could sight a target like none other, and with deadly precision and unbelievable speed and draw and hit it from hundreds of yards away. But few realized the promise of silence in that moment, when the world collapsed to the point and the beat of his heart. He had been taught to live in that instance of deep and emotionless serenity. There was nothing beyond the target, no battle, no struggle, no consequences. He felt closer to his own soul in the still moment, and that tranquility, that poise, was the core of his prowess in battle. The peace was the center of his being.

But now it was fleeting, and somewhere beneath layers of torment, anguish, and memory, he was terrified. Only a scant few times in the past had he felt so…  _sick_. Once, many years ago when he had been but a young and eager hunter, he had prematurely joined one of his sibling's patrols. A callous moment of frivolous and boastful heroism had left him with a nasty spider bite upon his thigh. He recalled his father's calming voice and worried eyes as the king comforted his son throughout the worst of the fever dreams. Of course, Mirkwood's healers were greatly experienced with treating the venom of the hideous beasts, and the young archer had been well again within a matter of days. Still, he had never forgotten what it had felt like to be violently and dangerously ill. All too well did his condition now mimic his suffering then, and there in the field, hundreds of years later, his father was not available to nurse him from the depths of delirium. His entire body throbbed in time with his racing heart. His head was pounding, the excruciating pain crashing behind his eyes and beating against his skull. A faint, shrill ringing plagued him, and at times he irrationally and stupidly wished to simply block the terrible noise by covering his ears. His muscles throbbed in a way that weighed down his form and made movement a difficult venture. He felt unreasonably sluggish, his motions uncharacteristically choppy and clumsy. Agony had claimed his entire left side, selfishly feasting upon his endurance and leaving him weak and dizzy. The Elf was hot and cold at once, and this frustrated him greatly for one moment he was nearly quaking in chill and the next he felt fatigued with heat. It was difficult to maintain his focus, and he could ill afford to falter. The lives of his legion depended upon him. He needed to concentrate!

"I do not like this." The grumble from his left drew his rattled attention, and Legolas focused uncooperative and stinging eyes upon Gimli's form. The Dwarf sat upon the grass beside him, the reeds rising around him like walls of green. His axe lay across his lap, and his hands tightened compulsively about the hilt. "Bah! I hate waiting!"

If he had not been so distraught with his ailing body and mind, the Elf would have relished the opportunity to chide his friend on his impatience. As it was, Legolas only swallowed the nausea building in his throat and forced his wandering mind to focus. Such a thing was becoming increasingly more difficult.  _Feverish? Ai, if only my mind would clear… If only I could think!_

The Elf lifted a clammy hand from the arc of his bow and absently pressed it to his chest. He felt a small lump beneath the layers of his clothes and he closed his eyes briefly, comforted by the touch of it. Fethra's pendant was somehow cool against his heated skin, and the area to which it pressed seemed to be the only small part of his body that did not ache. He did not wonder much at this, simply grateful for its soothing presence. Inexplicably it had become a pillar of strength for him, for when he touched it or felt it press to his breast, he thought of her. The child grounded him in reality, keeping his wandering and tortured mind tethered to the responsibilities of the moment.

Gimli was speaking, and Legolas forcibly shifted his attention to his companion. The Dwarf's whisper seemed incredibly and painfully loud to his overly sensitive ears. The sound grated upon him, somehow akin to a shriek or shrill scream despite its softness. "The air has grown so still here."

The Elf responded with little thought, grateful that his lips were somehow capable of forming intelligent responses without the aid of his mind. "The wind had ceased. The earth holds its breath. They come soon."

Gimli watched him, as if torn between disbelief and hope. Legolas felt ashamed for how he had acted earlier and his continued unusual and burdensome behavior. Unfortunately he never remained in control of his mind long enough to modify his acts, and the attacks of trance-like memory and numbing pain were simply too numerous and powerful to effectively combat. Horrific images of the beating and rape, doubt and anger over all he had experienced, feelings of betrayal and bitterness toward Aragorn, and the strange malaise and poisoning sickness that consumed him… these things combined to form a monster with many heads, a ghoul that ravaged him on all fronts and left him unable to even struggle, much less predict when the next assault would occur. He had never before experienced anything like this. Never before had his customary peace been so completely gone from him. As a Wood Elf, he was especially attuned to the swelling power of nature, to the songs of trees, wind, and stars, to the ebb and flow of life. He was gifted more than most of his kind, in fact, and long had he learned to sense and understand things beyond what others could see, touch, or hear. For the first time in his life these things, these melodies that were as much a part of him as his skin or spirit, were lost in a muddled mess of disease and anguish.

Gimli's eyes had softened and his face was fearful. "Legolas," he began softly, "many times in the past have we been as such, waiting together for battle to begin. Many times before have I been in your presence, watching you weather the storm of tension and terror around you without so much as a rushed breath or fearful blink. We Dwarves are not so unobservant. Oft times I wondered at such a thing, at first with annoyance and perhaps a tad of jealousy, but later with only respect and admiration. It boggled my mind, and that is no simple thing for me to admit, understand, that you could remain so… composed before such ruin. It annoyed me to no end, in fact, as I stood there and watched your passive face betray none of the anger and fear I felt myself." Gimli sighed softly, his breath shaking the grasses before him. "With time I came to realize that it is not callousness or arrogance that you bear before the battle. It is your strength, your courage." Legolas looked down, averting hurting eyes from his dear friend. "You do not bear it now."

"Gimli–"

But the Dwarf would not be interrupted. "I have never seen you falter, Elf, and I have no wish to see it this night. If you will not speak to me, then I shall simply swallow my wounded pride and abide by your wishes. It does grieve me deeply that, despite the bond of our hearts, you will not confide in me the source of your troubles. Why suffer in silence? I might bear them with you and in doing so make them lighter upon weary shoulders." The stout warrior's eyes flashed in sadness. "Do you fear I will think less of you?"

Tears flooded Legolas' eyes, the same tears that always threatened but that he never found the strength to release. "Yes." His ashen lips hardly moved with the word.

"Then you are a fool. I will do no such thing! Think you so lowly of me?"

"Of course not, Gimli–"

The Dwarf's gloved hand snatched his own, tearing it from where it rested over Fethra's pendant. "Then speak to me. Tell me what ails you. I cannot stand to see you suffer so!" Legolas remained silent; he did not have the breath to respond, and his burning, dry throat had tightened, blocking his voice. Gimli inched closer. "At least take some rest. You are ill. Mayhap the pride and inexperience of your kind blinds you to the fact, but I see it clearly. I know not the cause of your malady, but it is dangerous, I am sure of it!" The grip on his hand was iron. "Your eyes glow with delirium, with a madness I never thought possible. You shake and tremble like a leaf blown in too strongly a breeze, helpless and submissive to the currents of the gale. Your face is pale and you limp. You think perhaps that I do not see these things, but I do.  _I do_." Legolas grimaced and tried to pull away, but Gimli's grasp was too strong. "Can you not see the danger you face here? You told me Elves are not infallible. Have you suddenly forgotten your own words?"

They were silent a moment, Gimli's whisper hanging in the stagnant, wet air. Legolas' head throbbed mercilessly in the emptiness, and he could not gain sufficient enough control over the pain to provide any sort of answer. Thankfully, once again fate interceded on his behalf, for abruptly did a breeze pick up and sweep over them. His muddled emotions miraculously reclaimed concentration and direction, and he tensed his body to stop its infernal shaking. The smell of heat, of sweat. Of blood.  _They are here!_

Legolas crept forward a bit, Gimli releasing him in realization, and spoke in a hushed tone to his lieutenant. "Send word down the line to acquire targets. We release arrows only when I say." The Elf nodded at his lord's words. A whisper in Sindarin rolled silently down the line of Elven archers. Éomer had thought it best to divide the Elves of Ithilien equally between both fronts, as their keen sight was too valuable an asset to place singularly. Night would soon come, and the darkness would hamper men greatly. Valandil commanded the other half of the Elven warriors under Faramir upon the western front. Legolas had also been granted the command of mostly Gondor's forces, and he was glad for it as he knew these men were comfortable enough around him to trust his orders.

The hidden force tensed as soft orders fled up and down the line in Elvish and Westron. Behind him, the infantry remained hidden, commanded to stay obscured by the grasses until the enemy breached the swamps. Arrows were drawn from full quivers and fitted to bow strings. Bodies were hard and stiff in a struggle to stay the panic and remain still, eyes darting about for signs of the approach, breaths held in anxious fear.

Legolas joined his archers, pulling an arrow from his quiver and absently placing the fletching against his longbow's string. Gimli grabbed his knee, and he looked back at the Dwarf. "I am fine," he whispered, forcing bravado into his voice. His eyes flashed. The matter was no longer open for debate. "I will not fall."

The Dwarf grumbled something low beneath his breath and gripped the shaft of his great axe as he came to crouch beside Legolas. "I will be sure of it," muttered Gimli, his eyes dark with hatred for the enemy. "Let them come, then. My axe yearns for the taste of blood this night."

Then all became still. Legolas scanned the reeds, the grasses washed dark red in the setting sun. Crickets chirped madly, bellowing their frantic songs into the night. The ground sloped ever so slightly into the swamp, but it was enough to provide the archers with a clear view. There was the murmur of grasses swaying against bodies. Then black forms appeared through the soupy mists forming about the marsh. Legolas narrowed his eyes, his fingers absently running along the sharp feathers of the fletching of his arrow. They were perhaps a hundred yards away, but Legolas could easily detect their dark eyes, their weapons, their staggering steps as they struggled through the murky morass. A kill at this distance would be a simple matter, but he doubted the men he commanded could yet distinguish form from shadowy, foggy apparition. They had to wait.  _Steady. Breathe. Wait._

A few minutes passed, and in that time the Easterlings nearly emerged from the bog. The fog parted around them. Legolas spotted one and closed his attention about him. Desperately he dug through his suffering and searched for that calm, for his peace. Long breaths left him and he began to panic. He could not find it, the composure he sorely needed to guide his mind and body. Every part of him, and he could not control the pain. He could not! Was this to what the assault had reduced him, a weakling that could find no strength or courage? Was he not a master archer, a prince, an Elf? Why could he not concentrate?

But suddenly it snapped into place. The calm enveloped him, shaking and wavering at first, but gradually becoming stronger as he slipped into its familiar and secure void. The shaking stopped. The pain faded. He was ready.

The enemy came within range. Legolas drew a sharp breath, tightening his hand about the shaft of his bow. "Now!" he cried, and he stood in one fluid motion. All around him the archers did the same, following his lead. The Elf prince drew back powerfully, feeling the familiar strain tingle in his arms and chest. In a flash he saw the tip of his arrow and the eyes of the man he had targeted. A snap followed as he released, and the arrow careened forth with incredible speed and power. He watched as it struck the soldier between the eyes. The man fell with a surprised cry. The first shot of the battle had met its mark.

A breath later a volley of arrows descended upon the Easterlings. Caught unaware, the first line of their troops fell easily, collapsing with a bloody splash into the dirty water. A cry went through the approaching force, and a panic consumed them as they struggled to take cover. Legolas had already fired another arrow, killing a man fumbling in the mud. As he notched another arrow, he gave himself whole-heartedly to the familiar caress of impassivity. For the first time in days he was indifferent to all around him but the hum of his heart and his bow beneath able fingers. The arrow flew true from his great bow.

By this time the enemy had recovered enough from the surprise of the ambush to return fire of their own, and a rain of black arrows slammed into the archers of Gondor's defense. Screams rent the air, cries of pain and fear and death that shattered the silence of moments before, and the wounded or murdered Elves and men fell to the grass. Legolas ducked to avoid a shot, but he was not quite fast enough. His retarded reflexes failed him, and the sharp tip of an arrow clipped his right arm, slicing easily through his jerkin and tunic to reach the vulnerable flesh below. Stinging pain laced through his shoulder momentarily, but he paid the wound little heed, instead drawing another arrow from his quiver and rolling to his feet. Automatically he fitted it, sighted a target, and another assailant fell in the swamp.

"Fire in volleys!" cried the Elf prince as he dropped to a crouch again. He paused briefly to look at his arm. Dark blood was seeping into his clothes, but the wound was not very deep. His inner calm wavered a moment as bout of nausea claimed him. Had he moved a second later, had he stood but a few inches further to the right, that arrow might have claimed his life.

Gimli growled in frustration. The Dwarf never had relished these periods when the battle was left to the luck of flying arrows. He was a deadly adversary in close quarters, but when the archers dominated the field, Gimli could do naught but wait and take cover when shots came too close. He turned to Legolas as the Elf pressed his fingers to the neck of a fallen archer beside them. The man beside him was dead, a black arrow having stabbed deep into his chest. Legolas grabbed the arrow the man had clenched in his hand and put it to his own bow. He whirled and stood, drawing back and peering rapidly into the darkening fog. He let loose his shot, and, not even bothering to see whether it met its mark, fired another and another. The peace within directed his body without conscious thought, years of experience driving him. Two more running Easterlings were brought down by his quick shots, the white feathered arrows arcing from his bow like bolts of lightning. More men shoved past the dead, pushing up the small incline to reach the line of the defense, their weapons raised and their eyes blazing in blood lust. Legolas acted far quicker than those about him, snapping two arrows to his bow at once and shooting them. The Easterlings fell with shrieks, rolling back with the force of the impact and tumbling down into the mud.

Yet others were quick to follow. Arrows whizzed through the air as the row of archers behind the front line released them, striking some of the foes that had managed to escape the sludge of the swamp. The enemy continued to come, though, undaunted by the strength of the resistance. For every one they killed another was quick to assume the vacant position, and companies flooded up the hill.

Gimli released a throaty battle cry in Dwarvish before brandishing his axe against the wave of Easterlings that had finally come to their lines. The stout warrior stepped into the thrust of one man's sword, slamming the gleaming edge of his weapon into his attacker's gut. Legolas loosed another arrow, killing a charging enemy, before pivoting lightly on his heels and drawing one of his long knives. He swiftly ducked, avoiding the sloppy slash of a wicked scimitar, and returned with a powerful kick that caught the other in the chest. The opponent tumbled to the grass with the force of the blow, gasping for breath and dropping his weapon. The Elf gave him no time to regain his wits, though, twirling his knife masterfully before driving it deeply into the man's exposed throat. His eyes went wide and he choked and gurgled before laying still. Legolas pulled free his bloody blade and spun to meet the next attacker.

Chaos was erupting on the field as more and more Easterlings breached the swamp. Their number was more than they had anticipated, and Legolas swallowed his dread and denied himself this moment of dismay. "Drive them back!" hollered the Elf prince over the din of clanking weapons, screaming, and snapping bowstrings. "Stand firm! Drive them back!"

"Foul creatures!" snapped Gimli as he smacked his axe against the hooked sword of another adversary. The Dwarf was strong and stern, and his axe scrapped powerfully along the length of the Easterling's weapon, surprising the man and forcing him to drop the blade. Defenseless, he could do nothing as Gimli quickly rounded on him, pounding his axe into the man's chest plate. When the man stumbled from the blow, the sharp edge arced in a mighty swing, and a severed head fell with a thud into the grasses.

Their line was faltering. The infantry had not yet risen from their concealment, and Legolas knew that he had to postpone their reinforcement for as long as possible. Once the enemy knew of their strength, any benefit they might have once had would be gone, and the battle would fall to simple skill and strength. "There are too many!" Gimli growled from his side, dispatching another approaching warrior. Legolas drew back on his bow and brought down an aiming archer in the swamp. "Do more yet come?" Gimli gasped.

Legolas ducked, grabbing the arm of an Elf beside him and yanking him down as another volley of enemy arrows came upon them. The wretched, black bolts slammed into the moist soil all around them. The Elf prince paused a moment before grabbing another arrow from his rapidly depleting supply and launching it at their enemies. Quickly his eyes scanned the mists, estimating the strength of their foe in the moment he could afford to stand still. Then he dropped to his knees, feeling a bit winded and even less secure of this situation. "Not many more," he said softly, pulling a few loose arrows from the ground and the bodies nearby, "but enough."

"Can we hold this?" Gimli demanded, watching with hateful eyes as more Easterlings seemingly poured from the fog condensing over the swamp.

Legolas did not answer as he rose and began to fight again, for his mind could conjure no reassurances. He did not know how long they could maintain this position. The infantry remained in reserve, but archers were dying all around much faster than they had anticipated. They had thinned the Easterling's charge, certainly, but would the damage they had inflicted be enough? The Elf gritted his teeth. There were not one thousand men charging this front. It was as he feared: the Easterlings were attacking Emyn Nimsîr from all sides. He could only hope Faramir's warriors had better allayed the strength of the enemy. And what if their assailants somehow approached directly from the south, where Gondor's defenses were weakest? It seemed rather ludicrous to imagine a massive force of men charging where the rivers were at their widest, but certainly it was a possibility, and they would be foolish to immediately disregard the chance.

The battle lulled for a moment. The Easterlings halted their advance, giving the Elves and men of Gondor time to recuperate. Legolas lowered his bow, peering into the haze. The shadowy forms had slipped back. He wondered wistfully for a moment if they had somehow managed to force their opponent into a retreat, but he quickly dismissed the unfounded thought. The Easterlings were resilient. In the distance he could just barely perceive through the thickening wisps of fog the dark lines of troops push across the River Sirith. Some charged across the narrow stone bridge, and others swam and shoved their way through the water. They would come again within a matter of moments, reinforced and reorganized.

"Prince Legolas! Prince Legolas!" Legolas lowered his bow and turned at the call. A red-faced, winded messenger stopped before him, having dismounted from a panting horse. His eyes were wide. "I have come from King Éomer, sir, to inform you that Rohan has left the field to aid Lord Faramir."

Panic suddenly pulsed through Legolas. "What has happened?" he demanded, stepping closer to the gasping young man.

"I know not, sir!" He shook his head frantically, obviously frantic with the terrible tidings he bore. "The King only bid that I notify you of the situation. I am sorry, m'lord!" he stammered, appearing quite frightened of the Elf and Dwarf.

It was with good reason. Gimli roared in fury, "This is no time for silly apologies and dawdling! Ride back, man, and return with useful information! We cannot be so blind!" The messenger seemed paralyzed for a bit, bending away from the stout warrior's booming voice and fiery eyes. Then he skittered back, scrambling onto his horse and charging across the field.

Legolas felt lost suddenly, and the pains of his body began to threaten once more. He wondered frantically over Faramir's plight, praying with every bit of his being that his friend was well and his situation not as dire as the Elf feared. Surely they could not have fallen! And yet if Éomer had ridden to provide aid, there was little chance that western defenses had not been broken. Chills claimed the Elf, and all he could do to prevent his shuddering was clenching his aching body. Rage coursed over him, worry riddling his racing thoughts with doubt and terror. Gimli's eyes were upon him. He could feel his friend's imploring gaze, pressing upon the Elf a silent wish that somehow Legolas act to remedy this disaster. "What can we do?" asked Gimli quietly. "How can there be so many? If Faramir's forces have lost…"

 _Act. Ignore the problems of others and concentrate on your own,_  his mind chided harshly as he rose to his feet. The rush of the battle left him dizzy a moment, and he nearly stumbled. Bile burned in the back of his throat, but he only swallowed it in discomfort. The fog was reaching onto the field, blanketing them in bloody mist, and the sun was nearly set. In a matter of minutes it would be dark.  _Reform. Hold the line. You must hold the line!_  "We cannot be flanked," murmured the Elf prince, "and if Faramir has fallen, then…" His eyes widened. Gimli glanced at him, wondering at his strange actions. "Stay here, Gimli!" shouted Legolas. The Dwarf had no time to protest as the Elf took off in a sprint, running towards the company commanders. The men saw his approach, abandoning in directing their archers to offer him a shaken salute.

"My Lord," one of the commanders gasped. Blood drooled on his brow from a vicious cut. "Supplies are thinning. We will shortly deplete ammunition stores."

"We are losing too many men, my Lord!"

The calm whispered to him a plan, and he could think to take it. No doubt festered in his weary heart. No opposing voice of logic screamed in his bewildered mind. He simply embraced it, resolution glowing suddenly in his fevered eyes. "Have the infantry prepare to charge," he ordered.

"Charge?" another of the commanders asked, his face frightened and astounded. The man's worn, dirty face scrunched in dismay and disgust. Doubt flooded beady eyes; he obviously thought the prince's plan to be foolery or, even worse, lunacy. "Sir, we cannot abandon this post!"

"They must attack on all fronts," Legolas countered sharply, having no patience for opposition. "They cannot have allotted any particular side a significantly greater amount of men. We have already lessened this one. If we attack, we can push them back to the river and overcome them as they retreat."

The same man shook his head. "My Lord," he snapped, "I must protest–"

"Noted," Legolas said sharply. "The opportunity is before us to drive them back before they can reform. If we do not, they will regroup and swarm the field. Without arrows, we stand no chance of holding this position. I believe close combat in the dark and fog will only result in our defeat."

The logic sounded good and right to him, and apparently it did to his commanders as well, for his words were met with a series of understanding nods. Only the one man remained skeptical, but he eventually offered Legolas a stiff bow, gesturing his submission to the Elf's authority. "Then we will charge on my word."

The prince turned then, not waiting for their approval, and sprinted back to the front lines where the archers were floundering. Orders were echoing up and down the formation. He found the Elves left alive returning a volley again into the swamp, but there were too many targets now. In a moment the Easterlings would reach them, the ghostly mists ferrying the demons to meet them. They had to act now.

Legolas secured his bow upon his back and cried in Elvish, "Draw your swords!" A few surprised eyes turned upon him. "Now!" he bellowed, surprised at the strength in his voice. The Elves immediately jumped to action, and bright blades came free from sheaths with a chorus of metallic ringing.

"What craziness are you ordering?" Gimli's voice drew his attention. The Dwarf stood beside him, kicking aside an Easterling corpse that had fallen close to his feet. The dangerous edge of his axe dripped with red gore. Gimli's eyes were hard in violence and uncertainty.

Legolas gripped the hilt of his sword on his hip. The steel was cold beneath his skin, and he wrapped suddenly weak fingers about it. The calm wavered again, and his head began to spin nauseatingly.  _No… Not now. Not now!_  He grunted and drew his blade. It hummed powerfully, vibrating against his hot palm as it was released from its scabbard. Holding the glowing blade aloft, his closed his eyes briefly and drew a deep breath.  _I must be calm. Hold, now. We must do this._  When he opened his eyes again, the blue orbs were clear and vehement with purpose. "We charge to meet them," he explained softly and evenly to Gimli.

The Dwarf met his gaze and a smile spread slowly across his knowing face. "Yes," he hissed enthusiastically. He lifted his axe but said no more. No words were needed between them, for they understood each other's hearts. Then eyes were turned ahead, into the miasma. The sounds of the approaching Easterlings filled the air once more.

The infantry was ready behind them, their lances and swords held before them. Frightened glances were exchanged and prayers whispered. The road stretched before them, but darkness covered the way and left much to doubt and contemplation. Still, wherever that path led, it was one they had to walk. The field of battle afforded them no other choice.

Legolas lifted his blade. The black forms were just appearing through the fog. The Elf breathed slowly to gain as much of his composure as possible before relaxing every muscle in his pulsing body.  _We can do this._

"Company, ready!" he cried, his eyes trained upon the shadowy haze covering their path. A chorus of replies echoed his call, and the entirety of their force stood at attention. Waiting. Hoping. Tension claimed their hearts, but it could not make wrong their faith or turn weak their courage. This was their land. They would fight to the death to defend it.

Legolas narrowed his eyes.  _We will do this!_  "Forward!"

Down they went, across the sloping plains into the misty oblivion. A deafening cry of honor went through the men as the banners of Ithilien and Gondor flew again, fluttering madly in the rush of their charge. The bloody fog opened its arms and swallowed them all.


	15. The Course of Fate

Life. Death. Reality and nightmare. Sight and sound. In the mist, everything meshed, and the lines that used to define such things so strictly all but disappeared. Tendrils of wispy white consumed all this eve. The phantoms of those who had already died in the fight rose from the bodies littering the muddy ground and reached out to those that still struggled, wishing to exact a furious revenge for their loss. It was a soft swirl of grief and rage, one that invaded the body on each breath and clenched the heart in a cruel vice of exhaustion and misery. The fog was terrifying and blinding, and in it one lost himself to the oblivion. Everything was distant and horrifically close at once, screams and cries coming from seemingly all directions, leaving the body and mind shaking in disorientation. Breathe. Fight. Do not fall! Move. The senses deceived. The vacuum was all around them, distorting truth, sucking away hope and security, leaving nothing but the racing of frantic hearts in a desperate fight. Life and death. A ghostly pall shrouded the two choices, and the weary soul could do naught but fight to find its way through the abyss.

Pandemonium existed within the heavy fog. Everywhere men fell, tripping in the murky, bloody water, some struck by lucky arrows launched from invisible archers. Shouting filled the air, loud, raspy cries emanating from hidden throats. Piercing wails shattered the peace of the night, and the earth seemed to shudder for the horrific violence occurring upon it. Swords clanked loudly against one another, showering sparks that brightened the gloom for only a flash before winking from existence. Armor creaked and clanged with each frenzied blow. Men cried their dying misery, pleading with final breaths for mercy, for relief. Long grasses were trampled and stained red. Mud splattered about as men ran and whirled in furious combat, desperate to protect themselves against the army of demons around them. Apparitions in the fog took form, floating about the marsh as souls escaped dying bodies. Chaos controlled the battle, and in the shadowy haze it was impossible to accurately discern victor from defeated. Perhaps there would be no triumph. Perhaps there would be no escape. Time ceased to exist in this hellish nothingness.

Finally the Easterlings retreated, and the disarray began to abate. The charge had somehow achieved the desired outcome, repelling the already disordered enemy from their continued march to the field. Their enemies pulled their wounded comrades from the swamp, falling back to the river. A rallying cry rose through the mist as the forces of Gondor surged forth, pushing the enemy to the water. Whatever remained of the Easterlings' front staggered over the narrow bridge, those less fortunate flailing through the river. Archers that still had arrows released final shots into the shadows. Eventually the black forms disappeared into the night, fleeing along the river's opposite bank to the safety of obscurity.

Legolas lowered his bow slowly, loosening the tense stance into which his body had fallen. His last arrow he returned to an empty quiver as he watched the Easterlings crawl from the opposite bank. No matter his hatred of them, he would not shoot at a defenseless and retreating force.

The Elf released a slow breath and turned. All around him the fog swirled and twisted like a vortex of clouds and misery. He watched as the curtains of dark gray shifted and spun in their formless and restless dance. An eerie quiet descended over the area, and Legolas' ears rang with the echoes of the harrowing fight. Where there were once screams and shouts now only moans and soft murmurs reached him. Soft steps and gentle splashing replaced the smacking of armor and weapons. It seemed so grotesque and wrong to follow such terrible violence with a peaceful quiet. The walls of shadowy mists parted. Legolas' weary eyes traced the outlines of men as they waded through the mud and water. The energy of the battle had all but abandoned them, leaving them saddened and fatigued, their once powerful and proud postures slumped and despondent. What remained of their fervor was placed in offering aid to the wounded.

Legolas pushed his way through the water, his legs suddenly aching and wobbly. The excitement from the fight fled him as well. Calm disappeared once more, for no longer were there targets, was there any cause to remain so tense and attentive, and his body was simply too worn and beaten to retain such aplomb. The Elf swallowed a painful lump in his throat and replaced his bow upon his back as he gingerly picked his way through the mess of bodies strewn haphazardly about the swamp. As the fog swarmed about the land, so did the fever his mind, and memory stretched and meandered. During the battle he had been able to act with his normal acute and incredible poise, driven by the reliance of his soldiers upon his command. Now he felt weak and weary, and the nightmare he had managed to keep at bay rushed upon his mind again like eager, snapping dogs scrambling for a chance at a feast.

He stumbled, his foot sinking deeply into a muddy hole and his ankle twisting in pain. He could not stop the forward momentum of his body in time to save himself from a fall. The Elf struggled from the water, feeling the cool water seep into the breast of his tunic. Damp hair clung to his face in splatters of mud, moisture, and sweat. Freeing his foot suddenly drained him of whatever endurance remained, and he crawled to a firmer patch of dirt and settled his panting body upon it. Legolas wheezed softly as he braced his elbows on his knees and rested his heavy head in his hands, his beaten frame quivering in chilly agony.

"Lad?" came a quiet voice. Startled, Legolas opened eyes that had slipped shut and turned. Gimli stood behind him, leaning tiredly on his axe. The Dwarf was utterly filthy, his armor covered in mud, his face streaked in grime. Legolas supposed he did not look much better. Gimli's eyes were dark and deep with worry as he knelt in front of his friend.

Legolas released a slow breath and turned burning eyes away. Gimli reached forth and took each of his hands, folding them into his own. "I feel so cold," whispered Legolas, his body quaking uncontrollably as the nebulous haze crept all about them.

Gimli pulled his hand from its glove before laying it upon the Elf's brow. "Aye," he responded softly. "You burn with fever. Come, we must get you from here."

For once Legolas was simply too tired to argue. The allure of rest was too much for his battered mind and body, and Gimli's touch upon his aching skin was soothing. His pride fell away, its normally screaming voice softening to a nattering whine in the face of his pulsing desire for relief. He was finally prepared to simply submit to the wailing want of his soul and allow himself to receive proper care.

But something tickled his senses. He lifted his head as a new smell invaded his nostrils. He recognized it easily enough.  _Smoke._  A tiny breeze wafted by them, ferrying the acrid stench to the fog-laden swamp. Warm energy percolated through him. "Something burns," he declared, pulling from Gimli and rising to shaking feet. The odor grew strong as the wind swiftly swept over them. Without a doubt it came from the west.  _Faramir._

Panic pulsed through him with the sudden realization. He all but forgot his suffering as he turned, pushing himself into a run. "Come on, Gimli!"

"Elf! Wait!  _Legolas!_ "

But Legolas was already sprinting up the gentle incline, running faster than he ever had before. At their previous position the infantry was reforming, tending to the wounded as they were carried from the swamp. Weary banners pulled against their poles. The Elf prince drew to a quick halt alongside the captains. Before he turned to them, he looked to the center of the field where the horses were being kept. He struggled for breath a moment before whistling sharply, calling Arod. He could only hope his horse would detect his summons.

By now the commanders had noticed him, and the fiery Elf turned to them. "Ready our forces," ordered Legolas, hardly drawing enough breath to speak. The men turned stunned eyes to him, their mouths hanging limply open. "Reform the line! I will ride to the western front and see if Lord Faramir requires our aid!"

"My Prince, our supplies are spent. Nearly a third of the men are dead or injured. We will not be able to withstand another charge!"

Legolas' eyes flashed madly, bright and blue with anger and dread. "We have no choice. Divide the companies that remain, and prepare half to march to me should the need arise! Hold this ground!" The men looked frightened, their faces lax and ashen, but they nodded at their commander's orders. Legolas detected their deflated morale as if it was a palpable slap, and his frenzy released his heart for a moment. His face softened. "I doubt they will come again. We have pushed them back across the river, and that swamp is far too dangerous a place to traverse at night."

The Elf's soft words eased the moment, dissolving a bit of their fear, and the men shared reassuring glances. One spoke, then, stepping forward and straightening his rumpled and ripped surcoat. "We will regroup the archers and position them as before, my Lord. Should they charge again, they will fail."

Legolas gave a grateful nod. A gasping rumble came from behind them, and the small group turned. "Have the wounded pulled back into the field, as well," Gimli instructed as he staggered closer. The flushed Dwarf bent over a bit, bracing his hands on his knees as he fought to catch his racing breath. "Curse you! Have you no patience? Rude fool…" Gimli snorted and came closer to his tall companion. He dropped his tone so the men rushing about would not hear their conversation. However, the diminished volume did not decrease the worry and annoyance in his tone. "And do you plan to run across the field? In your condition, no less? Pah!"

But Legolas ignored his friend's disdainful utterances, instead turning his attention to the dark field. In the distance he could see plumes of black smoke rising in the twilight. Panic speeded his thoughts, and the Elf pursed his lips to whistle once more. However, another call was unneeded, for Arod appeared moments later, his white form racing through the grasses like a streak of pure lightning. Legolas felt his fear lessen a bit at seeing his friend.

The great stallion slowed before him, silent and beautiful. Arod had obviously broken free from an attendant's hand, for he was bridled and saddled, the leather reins dangling idly beneath his head. Legolas stroked his cold, wet nose briefly in gratitude and relief, and after he turned to look at Gimli expectantly. The Dwarf was trying quite hard to hide his surprise, and had this been any other time, Legolas would have been greatly amused at the effort. "This beast is too much an Elf," grumbled the Dwarf as he approached Legolas and allowed his friend to help him upon Arod's steady back. "At every opportunity he defies all sense of proper reason and drives all who are cursed as witness to the brink of infuriating lunacy."

Legolas did not answer, pulling his throbbing self onto the saddle. He afforded no more than a breath in situating himself before grabbing Arod's reins. The horse took off in a mighty gallop without warning, and Gimli gave an enraged cry as he struggled to maintain his precarious balance, flinging terrified arms about Legolas' waist and grasping the archer as though his life depended on it.

Over the field they flew, bounding over rut and ridge, cutting across the wide expanse of rolling grasses. The sounds of a waning battle grew louder and sharper as they neared the western front. Arod's hooves pounded in the soil, the horse's mighty stride devouring the distance. Legolas had no courage to breathe, the wind tearing the air from his mouth and lungs as it ripped at his hair and bit coldly into his skin. Fear churned in his stomach, twisting his innards painfully, and his mind thundered in terror and doubt. What if the western front had fallen? Gruesome pictures flashed through his weakened mind, terrible images he could not keep at bay. Blood. Death. Faramir and Éomer, slain.  _Please no! Oh, Elbereth, please no!_

Ahead the great mass of shadows began to take shape. Legolas squinted and peered into the haze intently, trying to decipher fact from darkness and smoke. Men were running about, bearing the wounded and dying. A large portion of the army appeared to have flooded into the river. Giant black forms bleated and shifted in the water; they seemed to be leashed to the stone bridge and struggling violently to break their bounds. The River Celos also seemed to be the location of the billowing smoke, and as Arod neared, the Elf could see that a makeshift gangway was ablaze. The fire roared as it devoured the wood, sizzling madly when it touched the water beneath. Flags rose upon the field. Rohan. Gondor. The Steward's. Legolas' heart lurched momentarily at the sight of the serpent upon its sea of crimson, but then his beleaguered mind remembered that the Southrons and Easterlings bore the same standard save the inversion of the snake's direction. What he saw was the banner of Harad, weakly blowing in the breeze.  _They repelled the onslaught._

The Elf pulled back on Arod's reins as they reached the camp, drawing the horse to a stop. A young soldier looked up at his approach, abandoning his task of holding supplies for the healer beside him. "Prince Legolas comes, King Éomer!" he cried.

Éomer abruptly turned from speaking to a few of his men at the announcement. The young king was somewhat wearied, his face dirtied and dark. His eyes still glowed with power and hope, though, and this eased Legolas' rattled spirit. The Elf dismounted Arod as gracefully as his pained body could manage and then helped Gimli down. The disgruntled Dwarf grumbled a bit more, ridding his attire of the dirt from the ride with a few short swipes of his hands though it was quite a futile gesture. Éomer stepped closer, Firefoot trailing him obediently. "How fares your front?" he asked softly.

Legolas drew a shaking breath, his body once again heavy and lethargic now that he knew the western company had not been destroyed. "We repelled their attack," declared the Elf, hoping his voice did not sound overly strained or weak.

"Casualties?" questioned Éomer.

"Nearly a third. I do not know how many of those are dead or merely injured."

Éomer nodded to this information, his eyes gleaming with both relief and anger. He sighed softly and turned his eyes to mess of men before them. Legolas followed his gaze, observing the soldiers pull the wounded further in land. The Elf had not taken time earlier that day to ride to the west bank where the Celos made its path, but now he realized that the eastern section of the field was far better suited for defense. There was hardly any swamp land here, at least not enough to slow the enemy's charge onto the plains from the river. The terrain was dreadfully flat and easy to cross. "We have lost more, I fear," Éomer murmured softly. His voice betrayed his dismay. "The Easterlings boast a fearsome hatred for their countrymen, it seems. Harad suffered much this night."

Legolas clenched his jaw in restrained rage. Had these monsters no respect for their own kin, for their own blood? He wallowed in his ire a moment, comforted by the security of anger. Then he felt Éomer grasp his arm and he focused upon the weary king. "I am glad you were able to repel their charge. Had you not…" He did not finish, perhaps because at the moment he could not bear to speak of a fate that had nearly occurred.

"What is burning, horse master?" asked Gimli from beside his Elven companion. From his vantage the Dwarf could not see the source of the pungent smoke.

Éomer cast upon Gimli tired eyes. "The enemy brought with them makeshift bridges to increase their speed in fording the river," he explained. Certainly such a thing had only augmented the western front's disadvantage, and though Legolas had once considered his own situation upon the eastern banks dire, he now felt guilty over such an ignorant and selfish idea. "We set fire to them after pushing back the enemy. Ulpheth suggested we destroy the stone bridge as well, and the Mûmakil at present make short work of it."

"You decided to destroy the bridge, then," Gimli said, his expression weak with a bit of dismay and worry.

Éomer shook his head. "I had hoped it would not come to that, but, yes, there was no other choice. Had we not they would have overrun us. At least now we will have but one front."

"And but one escape route," grumbled the Dwarf darkly. Éomer said nothing to this, though he clearly had heard the soft, angry comment. The young man's face broke in shame. Gimli had meant no insult, but it was still critical all the same. The king of Rohan's command had faltered, and his plan had nearly failed in the face of unforeseen dilemma. Surely such a shortcoming was not his fault, but unfortunately once done things could not easily be changed, and rarely did blame for an unfortunate situation leave leaders unscathed. Gimli lifted his chin then and focused upon Éomer. "Where is Faramir?"

Éomer turned and looked into the dark mass of soldiers scurrying about the field. "With Beregond. The captain was injured during the melee." Legolas and Gimli exchanged concerned looks, and Éomer was quick to supply them with more information. "It was not serious."

The Elf breathed a silent sigh of relief. Arod nibbled at his hair, and he was tempted to simply fall back and allow the horse to support him. Once again panic was abandoning his beaten body, leaving him weak and pained. Silence crawled over them briefly, and despite the throbbing of his head, Legolas heard every whisper of the men, every moan of pain and fear. It pounded between his ears, and he grew suddenly more exhausted than he thought he had ever been before. The emptiness was laden with too much: fear, doubt, hope, anger. Serenity sought to push its way to them, riding upon a calming breeze that smelled fresh. The crickets sang a soft, lulling melody. But blood had washed the field, and the tranquility was utterly false.

The king of Rohan finally spoke again, his voice unbearably loud to Legolas' hurting head. "We shall regroup in the field's center and take respite. I will reinforce the fronts as much as possible." Éomer's eyes had softened as he gazed distantly into the black night. "Let us hope they do not come again this night."

* * *

The camp was still after that. All energy fled the bodies of men and Elves, and no action beyond the absolute essential was even considered. The wounded had been carried to the center of the field where the limited number of healers could tend to many at once. Those especially severely injured had been taken into the town itself where a warm bed and individual care waited. The bulk of the remaining army had convened in the field's center, seeking a moment's peace after their harrowing experience. Éomer had been reluctant to abandon either the western or eastern positions, but Faramir had convinced him of otherwise. It seemed unlikely, given the fog, their losses, and the blackness of the night that the enemy would dare attempt another assault. Even if they did, the steward had reasoned, in their weakened condition Gondor stood a better chance of repelling their attack united than divided in defending two fronts. Éomer had eventually conceded, stationing only a company upon each bank for the night's watch.

The rest of the beaten and weary army made their beds upon the cool grasses of the field. The sky had grown overcast, and the dark clouds and fog obscured the light of the stars. The night was very dark, and oppressive in its cold silence. Where once the field had been warm with sun and humidity, now it was chilly and lifeless. The men and Elves took rest, but there was no quiet in their hearts as they lay among the tall reeds. Fear and tension hung on the still air, like the souls of those departed floating about the mire, swirling in the tendrils of mist reaching down to caress the still bodies on the ground. Sleep was an impossible dream for most as they were haunted by the screams of friends in death, by the eyes of those they had killed and seen killed, by the possibility of another charge before dawn. The dead had been left behind in the swamp, for the land was simply too treacherous to send forth soldiers to carry the corpses to dry land. Restless spirits screamed their fury into the night, death a vicious and unfair reward for their struggles, tormenting those left alive with their howling misery.

Legolas breathed slowly and evenly, struggling to ward away the ailment pressing upon him. His mind was overthrown by a different sort of turmoil, for he did not hear the keening wails of the abandoned and disgraced bodies or feel the press of the constant fear of the Easterlings' retaliation. Instead, terror and pain plagued him for his private plight. He was so very tired and his body ached fiercely. The only remedy, he knew, was sleep, and he sorely needed it. Through the haze that claimed his once keen mind no memory would come forth of the last time he truly felt rested. It was so long ago. Too long ago.

The Elf lifted his head. His neck was terribly stiff, and a shaking, clammy hand reached behind to attempt to massage the knots from his tense muscles. Gimli snored loudly beside him, the Dwarf's body curled tightly to conserve heat and covered with a woolen blanket. Legolas smiled weakly despite the misery of his situation. Arod had come to lay behind the two friends, ever mindful of his master's comfort. Gimli had snorted disdainfully at the horse's closeness for quite a while, complaining ceaselessly about the beast's presumptuous behavior and the smell of wet horse. Then the Dwarf had fallen asleep, curled in the warmth of Arod's flank, his head pillowed upon the soft side of the animal. Apparently not even his dislike for Arod could drive him to deny the gentle beast's offering of heat and coziness.

Legolas looked away from his slumbering companion, envying him his peace. The archer refused to lean back into Arod's strength, knowing that if he did so, he might himself slip away into dream. The thought sent chills racing across his skin, turning his stomach in nauseating terror. He did not know if they would come for him again while he lay helpless in sleep. The memory of chain snapping across his back, of those sick lips upon his, of hands groping him was enough to give his shattered spirit strength to avoid sleep. Some part of his stricken mind pondered the rationale of it; surely they could not reach him here, in the middle of this wide field surrounded by guards, watchmen, and soldiers. Yet it had seemed equally impossible for anyone to slip inside the Citadel and take him from the safety of his room, and that  _had_ happened. Waking nightmare consumed him; the thought of such a trauma again befalling him left him no choice but to stay awake for as long as he needed to.

Sighing, the Elf turned his wandering attention to the pile of arrows before him. He had gone through the battle debris not long before, pulling arrows from corpses. His quiver was depleted; he would need to repair as many as possible before the second wave of the Easterlings' attack came. And there was no doubt in his mind that it would come. Briefly he had spoken with Valandil perhaps an hour earlier, and he was much relieved to discover that his friend was well. The Elves had suffered few losses during the battle. Only one archer had died, and a few more had sustained minor injuries. That had been good news at least, though it did not begin to account for the hundreds of men that had passed this night. The Haradrim had lost well over half their forces, leaving only two hundred or so where there had once been five. Gondor faired a bit better. Legolas could only hope they had managed to strike an equal blow to the Easterlings. If, come the morrow, a thousand enemies swarmed onto the field against their diminished numbers, they would fall and quickly.

There came the sound of soft footsteps, and Legolas looked up. Faramir stood in front of him, offering a cup. Steam rose from the liquid within, reaching ghostly fingers into the air before the vapors disappeared. Arod was silent behind the Elf, but the horse's body tensed ever so slightly in suspicion.

They were silent a moment. Legolas watched Faramir's face, trying to discern the other's intentions. Paranoia had been burned into him by the assault the night before, and he could not for all the want of his crying heart abandon his distrust. The man smiled softly. "Drink this," he implored in a hushed tone.

The Elf narrowed eyes bright with fever. "What is it?" He turned an accusing glare from the beverage to his friend. "Will it make me sleep?" he asked quickly, unable to keep panic from bringing edginess to his quick words.

Faramir's face broke in confusion and hurt. "Nay, my friend. It is only tea."

Embarrassment coiled in Legolas' belly. His hard visage cracked, and his will faltered.  _I am so very tired…_  But he said nothing, only receiving the offered cup. The cracked porcelain warmed his cold fingers as he held it between his palms. He felt Faramir's eyes upon him as he slowly brought the cup to his lips. It smelled pleasant, without a medicinal tang.  _You fool! Why would Faramir lie to you? You are becoming mad!_  Legolas sipped the liquid slowly, unable to completely shed his suspicion. It tasted sweet and bitter at once, simple tea brewed with a touch of honey. The heat of it soothed his sore throat, and warmth spread across his chest like dulcet fire. Until now he had not realized how thirsty he had been.

Faramir sat across from him, holding his own cup of tea. The steward looked horrendous. He was still caked in grime and mud, the dirt having dried upon his clothes and skin. Like a tiny ray of sunlight amusement came to Legolas as they sat watching each other. In the few years he had known Faramir, not once had the son of Denethor looked so… so much like Aragorn.

The man must have been thinking the same of Legolas. "Never in all my life have I seen an Elf, nay, an Elf  _prince_  look so completely unkempt." Faramir chuckled softly. "You are a mess, Legolas."

The words were meant to lighten the moment, and they did briefly. Legolas forced a weary smile to his pale face as he sat. Quiet came then, one wrought with unspoken fears and unwanted weakness. The silence pressed upon Legolas, and his normal calm was so fleeting that he was unable to allay his discomfort. "How fares Beregond?" he asked, desperate to fill the hungry void.

Faramir sighed softly. Guilt flashed momentarily in his gray eyes, his normally stern and proud face falling in the private moment. "Well enough. The arrow was not poisoned, and though the wound bled significantly, the healers believe he will recover completely."

Legolas said nothing to that, as once again his traitorous voice had failed him. He drank his tea, lowering his eyes, feeling terribly ill and even less sure of his grasp upon reality. Images shifted listlessly about within him, grabbing his attention for only a moment before moving away, making him see and hear and touch things that were not there, that were most assuredly passed. The world faded away, and he went with it, too exhausted to fight the pull of memory and wandering thought. Time lost meaning, and he shunned consciousness, floating in a random sea of reminiscence. Perhaps if he sank the pain would stop, the ache of his body would fade, the grip of terror and torture upon his spirit would disappear… Perhaps if he drowned…

"Legolas?"

The Elf jerked and his eyes snapped open. Disorientation left him reeling a moment, a tingling sense of nausea and cold claiming his pulsing form, and he had a difficult time focusing his blurry sight upon Faramir. The steward was watching him quizzically. Concern shone in his gaze. Then the young lord looked down, his fingers tracing the rim of the cup in his lap absently. He looked as though he wished to speak of something, but he either lacked the gall or the elegance to say what he intended. Tension crawled between them, and for a long moment their two souls strained as though trying frantically to meet, to share, to communicate. But there was no such bridge between them, and the frustration was silent and strong. Finally Faramir lifted her eyes. "My Lady asked me but the other day if I would give her leave to make Emyn Arnen bloom again." A faint smile graced the steward's handsome face, the mention of his wife bringing him joy. "She believes our manor to be naught but cold stone and mortar. Though I am quite proud of what we have built, I am inclined to agree with her."

Legolas swallowed his dizziness and forced himself to pay his attention. Faramir went on with his story. "'The Garden of Gondor grows only rock,' she said to me. 'I wish it to sprout green and blossom red and yellow and blue. I wish to have a rainbow of color fill Ithilien.' She finds simple pleasures in simple things. Such simple things. Peaceful things." Faramir's eyes grew glazed in thought. "All my life did I live in my brother's shadow. I loved Boromir like none other, for he was good, strong, and valiant, and he cared for me in the way I wished my father might. The favored son would one day become the ruling Steward. The favored son would inherit the splendor and honor of Ecthelion. Ever did my father dote upon Boromir, and I was left to my own devices. I tried not to be spiteful, to resent the gifts Boromir's earlier birth had bestowed upon him, but oft I could not help myself from wondering at the futility of it. What good is a younger son? What purpose does he serve to a father that needs not another heir? All my life have I coveted this honor that by some twist of fate or ill luck came not to be mine." Anger crept about Faramir's words, and Legolas knew there was much more that he was choosing not to say. These emotions ran deep. The Elf understood that well, for they were not so different from his own. "Only of late, with my father's death and Aragorn's ascension have I come to accept the truth of who I am, of what I am to do. Ithilien has long been my home, and for many years have I longed to see its beauty restored. The forests were meant to flourish, the trees to sing, the rivers to run long and pure. So I made my own purpose. I took upon myself the task of rebuilding land once choked by shadow and corruption, for I  _know_  now that I was never meant to be anything other than what I am. I was not made to be the favored son. I was not made to be the ruling Steward. I am Lord of Ithilien." The steward's eyes narrowed and he looked down. "I do not want to have that slip away because of another foolish war." Spite laced Faramir's last words. "I will  _see_  my beloved wife build her garden, I swear it."

Faramir's whispered words echoed loudly in the emptiness. Legolas looked up suddenly, focusing his eyes upon his friend with renewed vigor. "And I will help her make her garden bloom," he declared. The strength and determination in his voice surprised them both. Resolution claimed his glowing blue eyes as Faramir met his gaze. "I swear it."

A pact was made between them. It was a soft, quiet resolution that carried with it no fame or glory. The two straining spirits reached each other for a brief moment. When they parted, each was stronger for the exchange and the silence was no longer so awkward.

Faramir smiled genuinely. Then the steward sighed. Tiredly he rose to his feet. He stepped closer to Legolas and reached down a muddied hand, resting a warm palm on the Elf's shoulder. "You are not well," said the ranger. "Please. Sleep." They both felt it then, that queasy sort of tension, and it took command of the moment again. There was much Faramir wanted to say. Too much. Perhaps not enough, when it would come down to it. The man was struggling to reach out to the Elf, to offer solace, to demand that the other rest, to implore that the Legolas speak of his troubles. But, for whatever reason, the moment failed them both, and the tenuous connection they had moments before made was not strong enough to offer either the courage to face demons left unspoken. Faramir did not ask, and Legolas could not answer. There was nothing more.

Then the weight upon Legolas' shoulder was gone. Soft footsteps rustled the grass, growing gradually more distant. Legolas did not turn to watch Faramir leave, his eyelids drooping, his heart terribly heavy. Only when the steward was far from him did the thoughts race again through his mind. How weak he was! How childish and weak! The pain within poisoned him; how wonderful it would have been to release it!  _You are nothing,_  spat his mind.  _Nothing! They have taken your dignity. Wallow in the shadows, for it is where you belong now! Wallow alone in your misery!_

A hot tear escaped the corner of Legolas' eye, streaming down his pale face, streaking through the dirt. His stomach twisted in pangs of agony, and he thought for a moment he might be sick so great was his grief. Why could he not confide in his friends? So black was the truth that it strangled his light, and for all his want he could not relieve himself of its terrible burden. They would not judge him. They would think no less of him!  _Aye, but you think already far too little of yourself. Aragorn dismissed you. Aragorn, he who calls himself your brother, ignored you. Pathetic child! Perhaps it is well such torment came to you. Do you not deserve to suffer for the choices you have made? Why drag forth demons better left to the night? You are chained to it. A puppet. You are nothing._

" _You are not well. Please. Sleep."_

_No._

" _Scream for me!"_

_No!_

Legolas jerked as again these violent thoughts shoved him away from sleep. Then they were silent. They were so unpredictable, one minute suffocating him in their strangling, grasp before turning and casting him aside like a useless prisoner. Like a discarded toy, designed for sadistic amusement, for use and abuse.  _"I will give meaning to your now meaningless existence. You are mine. I have taken you."_

_Breathe. Fight. Do not fall._

The Elf did, sucking inside him a deep, shuddering breath. The air was cold to his insides, but he relished the chilly caress. His heart was beating frantically, madly pumping the fever around his body. Legolas pressed his clammy palm over his breast and was surprised momentarily at the lump under his clothes. Long, shaking fingers reached beneath the layers of his mud-splattered clothing and pulled free Fethra's pendant.

Holding the small gem in his open palm, Legolas lifted it, pulling the chain tighter about his neck. He gazed into the red stone as it spilled gentle heat and warmth over his filthy hand. As he did, peace came over him, and the wailing within him ceased. He lowered the tiny red stone into his palm and strokied it tiredly with his thumb. The repetitive motion was calming. He thought of Fethra, of her shining eyes watching him, of her laugh and voice. She loved him without question, without regret. She did not see the shadows forced upon his once vibrant spirit. She did not doubt his strength. His affection for the little girl emerged again from the shuddering knot of his heart. And when he did, it was as though the sun was peaking through ominous clouds, and the pain faded.

He had promised he would come back to her. He could not break his vow. Not to her.

Strength returned to his fingers, and calm came to his heart. Slipping the pendant back under his jerkin and tunic, he sought his knife and reached for the first of the many arrows that needed repair. He would need a full quiver to protect the people as he had sworn to Fethra. This would be the purpose he would make for himself. He did not care that some small, logical voice nattered in the back of his mind that such a task was beyond him, that he was too weak and sick and he was only becoming weaker and sicker. He had given the child his oath, and he had meant it.

He loved her too much to lie.

* * *

Legolas had watched the sunrise. Slowly it had crept above the edge of the world, spreading gentle and warm golden light upon the field. For the Elf it had once again ended a long night spent in restless thought and hurt. Blearily he had wondered how many more such dawns he would face before his body would simply support him no longer in its exhausted state. The panicked voice of his self-preservation had answered his bitter question.  _As many as it must. I will never sleep again. Never._

The sunlight revealed sins the black night had previously hidden. The fog dispersed early in the morning, a warming breeze brushing across the field to blow away its ghostly remains. On either side there was a slew of bodies, the corpses sinking into the wetlands as though in a natural burial. Battle debris was everywhere, broken arrows protruding from soft soil, fallen swords and shields lying almost innocently amidst the grass. Over the River Celos there was no longer a bridge; only the legs of the stone structure now remained, the walkway itself pulverized by the stomping and pulling of the massive oliphaunts. The charred skeleton of the Easterlings' portable passage was also lying upon the bank, eaten through by the fire. The day was new but it was without peace. The land screamed an angry cry for the violence perpetrated upon it the night before. Blood painted the grass. Even the bright sun could not annihilate the shadow of death.

The Elf prince stood in the field, his arms at his side, his body still. The night had been long and hard indeed, for whatever disease had claimed his body afforded him little strength to combat the pressing demand for restful slumber. Though the hours had been lengthy and difficult, the sun had risen far too early. Arod had remained awake with him throughout the night, troubled by his reluctance to take reprieve. Silently the horse had watched his master's deft fingers wield the knife in repairing the arrows. The work was not overly exciting and somewhat tedious, but it had kept Legolas' mind focused enough to ward away the nightmares. When morning had come, he had risen to find his body miserably sore and dreadfully stiff. Muscles had refused to flex and his limbs would not bend. Never before had his flesh so pained him, and it greatly distressed him. Poor command over his body would lead to nothing but further harm. The ache in his chest and head had not abated over the night, and his nausea had only amplified. He cursed all the foul fates. Until this day he had never so desperately required sleep, and now was sleep utterly beyond his reach.

The army was slow in rousing. The battle the night before had drained many of them of their hope and endurance, and this day, though bright, warm, and pleasant, promised to be dark and dangerous. They faced the morning with little enthusiasm and low morale. The banners of their nations flew proud upon the field, but little patriotism graced their worried and deflated minds.

Gimli grunted softly as he came to stand beside Legolas. The Elf did not turn at his approach, his dull eyes staring blearily across the field toward the east. Neither spoke. The sounds of the troops moving about them filled the void, but it did not ease the hurt between them. Legolas was simply too tired to care much about the waves of pain his short companion was radiating, about the aura of concern that was nearly tangible in its potency. The archer's breath was hideously shallow and it was taking all his strength for him to remain still and quell the shaking of his figure. The sun reached toward them with a warm embrace, but the Elf felt nothing but cold and pain.

There were no words, because there was nothing to be said. Something hung on the air this morning, something foul and black. It was more than a simple threat from a physical enemy. This omen possessed a surreal quality, one that sent the body shuddering in terror and the mind shriveling in abhorrence. Danger like none they had ever before faced roamed, hunting for its victims, searching for its prize. There was inevitability to this grotesque and chilling premonition as well. The dawn seemed unreal, tinged as it was by this foreboding, by this dark dream. A nameless fear and hopeless destiny. The silence was almost fitting, for simple words would not undo it or prevent it. Perhaps nothing could change the course of the future.

And so the two friends stood, wondering at the sunrise, at the silence between them, at the hurt and fear left festering. Though the moment ended, it brought with it no consolation, no absolution, no completion. It carried with it only a hysterical cry.

"They come! My Lords,  _they come!_ "

The field exploded in chaos.

"Fortify the line!" cried Éomer. The king vaulted up onto Firefoot, the great horse snorting and stepping about in excitement. The soldiers rushed to follow the order as a rain of black arrows descended upon their camp. Men were struck as they awoke, and their lifeless bodies fell back into a bed of grass in a now eternal slumber. Quickly archers ran to the eastern front, stumbling in grogginess as they righted their bows and fitted arrows to them. Men from Harad joined Gondor and the Elves upon the line, and their forces released a return volley.

Arod was at Legolas' side before the Elf even thought to call for him. He helped Gimli to mount and then he climbed atop the beast himself, snatching up the reins. Troops rushed about in a show of running and stumbling, the warriors struggling to quickly form their companies. Commanders shouted, directing archers in a frenzied fire, hoping to slow the Easterlings' advance while the infantry rushed to prepare for battle. Arod lightly picked his way through the throng of fighters, driving past clambering men with great agility and elegance. Harsh screams shattered the peace of the morning. The eastern front was under siege.

Faramir was ahead, governing the defense eastern bank. Arod thundered closer, his hooves beating loudly against the firm soil. When they drew close enough, Legolas slid from his mount's saddle, landing heavily on his feet before sprinting towards Faramir. "How many?" he asked, grabbing his friend's arm.

The steward shook his head helplessly, dropping to his knees and pulling his Elven comrade down with him as a barrage of arrows struck the dirt around them. An Elven archer on the line collapsed with a blood-curdling cry, wicked black feathers sticking from his throat.

"Return fire!" bellowed Faramir, and Legolas pulled his bow from his back. He yanked an arrow from his quiver and set it to the string. Faramir collected from the fallen Elf a bow and arrows. The steward and the prince stood together, drawing back powerfully on the strings before releasing their shots into the charge of Easterlings pushing their way through the swamp. The volley from Gondor's forces struck down many of the advance, and they had time to fire again before the enemy's archers managed to return shots of their own.

Legolas scanned the approaching menace. "They are too few," he commented. "Far too few."

Sweat glistened on Faramir's brow. "Aye," agreed the ranger as he grabbed another fallen arrow. The tip was a bit bent from when it had rammed into the ground beside them, but it would do. The two stood again with the line, revealing themselves from the cover of the grasses. Legolas quickly took aim, his calm now easily enveloping him, his keen eyes narrowed as he sought a target. A breath later a foe fell in his approach, struck down by the Elf's quick reflexes and powerful bow.

Men rushed past them, creeping through the grass, pressing themselves as close to the ground as possible. The infantry was approaching quickly, fortifying the weakening line of archers. Rows and rows of troops surrounded Legolas and Faramir, the standards of Gondor and Harad waving in the morning breeze. The men knelt and took cover as piercing arrows fell all about them. The archers countered with a volley of their own, and Legolas stood languidly, firing like lightning striking the ground. Consciousness fell away as he stood and fired. With unnerving skill he picked off the approaching force, wasting not a breath or blink. Each move was calculated, each second flawlessly planned. Arrow after arrow left his great bow, joining the endless barrage assaulting the charging enemy.

When at last Gondor ceased its attack, the Easterlings were defeated. Silence came over the eastern front as the armored men that had survived the run through the swamp turned and retreated.

The soldiers cheered as the enemy fled. Legolas lowered his bow, confusion creasing his ageless face. A long moment escaped them, turning torturous with confusion and false elation, and the Elf felt Faramir shake his head beside him. The steward's jaw was set firm, his eyes burning in puzzled anger. Legolas' heart pulsed in dread. This was not right. Repelling that attack had been too simple, too easy. This was not right!

" _They charge from the south!"_

They had been tricked!

The minutes that followed were nothing short of absolute and utter chaos. Panic grabbed them and yanked them into motion. The Riders of Rohan, with Éomer in the lead, thundered across the plains in the distance, charging to meet the rush of the Easterling army. Legolas' eyes widened in dismay. The force that rushed onto the field was formidable; many lines of men raised their swords in a deep-throated cry, their gold armor glinting wickedly in the rising sun. The enemy swarmed onto the field in a great, glowing horde, flanking Gondor's eastern front and approaching from behind. He cursed their ill luck, their imprudent presumptions! How could they have been so foolhardy, so arrogant? They had easily fallen for this ruse!

Faramir was already atop Hasufel, the massive gray horse holding still for once and allowing his master to easily mount him. The steward raised his voice over the din, shouting madly, "Protect the town at all costs! Hold the plain! Hold steady!" Then the infantry turned and charged to meet their opponents.

Legolas' hand tightened about the arc of his bow as he sprinted back to where he had left Gimli and Arod. The Dwarf urged his speed, the stout warrior's voice tight in apprehension and excitement. The Elf swung himself up into the saddle and a moment later they were racing into battle.

The two forces struck. The noise was deafening. Swords slammed together, armor clanking as men smashed into each other and fell. Bowstrings hummed. A muted throb of screaming and shouting filled the air, and over it Legolas could hardly hear his own heart. The Haradrim cried mantras of pride and nationality as they fought against their kindred, their hatred violent and brutal, driving them in a furious battle. The banners meshed, dancing on the field, while their hosts made war upon each other.

Legolas drew back on his bow, letting loose another deadly arrow. It struck an attacker in the eye, and the man fell with a yelp and a spurt of blood. Gimli gave a hearty cry behind him as the Dwarf hacked off a man's head with a mighty swing of his axe. Arod kicked at the Easterlings surrounding him, furiously ramming his powerful hind legs into one unfortunate soul. They plowed their way through the mess of the war, Arod quick to act and avoid the swipes of the Easterlings' wicked blades.

The ground shook suddenly, and Legolas ripped around in the saddle. Ulpheth let loose a throaty cry, his words rough and foreign, as he ordered his men. The Elf did not understand the shouts themselves, but their purpose was clear enough, for the massive oliphaunts were released to rage upon the enemy. The gray beasts howled and bleated their fury, pounding into the soil and utterly pulverizing anything under their huge feet. Men squealed shrilly as they were crushed. There were only four of the creatures, but that was certainly enough to do massive damage to the opposing side. One of them whipped its head about madly, skewering victims in with gruesome force on its gigantic tusks.

But the Elf was forced to turn his attention back to the battle, and he pulled another arrow from his quiver and set it to his bow. Arod reared and whinnied loudly, barely avoiding the swipe of a sharp sword. Gimli howled his fury and grabbed Legolas, narrowly missing an elbow to the jaw as the Elf pulled back quickly on his bow. The arrow struck the man threatening Arod in the head, and he fell back into his comrades, quite dead.

The battle went on for endless minutes. Spears, swords, and knives grew bloody, and corpses littered the ground, tripping those still struggling to maintain their lives. Across the once peaceful field was a great sea of warring men. Neither side could afford to retreat. There was hatred and anger enough to drive each warrior in his quest for triumph, for blood, for retribution. Swords sang brightly in the sun and arrows whizzed everywhere haphazardly. There was no breath, no thought, no words. Only the battle thrived, and it did so with driving violence. Each man was only a pawn in its quest for blood, in its thirst for destruction. Each soldier was but an unwilling instrument.

Legolas turned in the saddle, grunting as his shot broke uselessly against the breastplate of a foe. Angry, he drew his sword and smacked the attacker's driving blade away before it could reach the flesh of his abdomen. Then he twisted his wrist and slammed his own weapon into the other's shoulder, causing the Easterling to drop his sword in pain and stumble back. Suddenly there came a deafening roar from behind him and the ground shimmied. Grabbing Arod's reins, he urged the horse to turn, and then his eyes grew frantic.

The Easterlings were bringing down the oliphaunts. He knew well that it was naïve and foolish to think the animals invincible. Their hide was thick, and no simple arrow or sword could pierce it. However, the Easterlings had developed tactics to render such a destructive and powerful force ineffective. Ropes had been tied around the feet of one of the colossal beasts, and fifteen or twenty men pulled upon them. The effect was immediate and terrifying. The animal could not stop its momentum as it instinctively tried to escape the restraint, and it tripped, loosing its balance. A great shadow appeared over the men below as the oliphaunt tipped.

" _Run!"_  screamed Faramir over the din, his eyes wide and horrified as the crushing weight descended upon him and his company. Legolas' breath hitched in his throat as he watched, paralyzed by shock and fright. A swift kick to Hasufel's side was enough to drive the horse out from under the collapsing hulk. Barely did the steward escape. Screams riddled the air followed by a bone-crunching thud as the mass of the animal hit the ground. Those less fortunate were crushed. Right after the Easterlings rushed the fallen and furious animal, stabbing and hacking at it.

Gimli breathed a shocked curse behind him. There was little time for more than that, though, for the battle raged on and afforded the careless and distracted only a quick death. The Dwarf slashed and stabbed at Easterlings as Legolas pushed Arod through the mob of men towards Faramir. The Elf ducked as an arrow whizzed overhead, swinging his sword around and deflecting a blow directed at his side. Red gore dripped from his blade as it severed the man's hand from his arm. Gimli blocked another stab aimed for the Elf's thigh, but Legolas had no time to thank his friend, for there were far too many men to waste a moment on words of gratitude.

The oliphaunts were enraged now, stomping and lashing out at anything and everything unfortunate enough to be close to them. Harsh treatment had thinned their patience, and like any threatened animal they responded indiscriminately. Friend and foe alike were mashed by their crushing feet. Ropes were thrown, and the men holding them were killed. Those Southrons atop the oliphaunts fell as they were struck by wayward arrows. Legolas notched a shot quickly and took precise aim. His arrow flew true, severing one of the cords the Easterlings were using to pull down an oliphaunt. The men fell back in surprise as their rope suddenly went slack, and the beast happened to wheel about at that exact moment and step on many of them with a terrific squish.

Finally Arod reached Hasufel. Faramir appeared slightly ashen-faced from his close brush with death before, but his eyes was ablaze with desperate rage. "This does not go well," he declared to Legolas, holding his sword aloft. The fine steel blade dripped in red. "They are too many!"

Suddenly an arrow struck Hasufel in the right buttock, and the horse gave a shrill cry and reared. Faramir yelped in surprise as he tumbled from the saddle, his blade clanging uselessly to the ground. The steward hit the earth hard. The Easterlings swarmed about them, silent and soulless, their wicked weapons glinting hungrily as they beheld their prize.

"Faramir!" cried Gimli, horror taut in his voice. Legolas quickly slid from Arod, stabbing his sword into a man advancing on Faramir as he did so. The Elf whirled, yanking free his shining blade and nearly catching another assailant with the motion. The man jumped back, but he was not fast enough to avoid the wrath of Gimli's screaming axe. The Dwarf roared mightily atop Arod, furious that these monsters would take advantage of a fallen man.

Legolas skidded to his knees beside the prone steward, pushing aside the body of a dead soldier. Faramir was already sitting up, winded but apparently not seriously hurt. He held his side as he crawled for his sword, the Elf's steadying hand upon his arm. "We must get away from here," breathed Legolas harshly. The steward nodded, wheezing a bit, as he grabbed for Hasufel's reins. The steed was skittishly stepping about, obviously quite rattled and in pain. Legolas wasted no time, though, stepping around and ripping the arrow from horse's rear. Hasufel cried his pain, but Faramir was quick to comfort him. The wound was not serious.

The steward hauled himself less than elegantly into the saddle. Legolas pushed his way back to Arod, cutting and killing. Gimli grabbed his arm and pulled him closer, helping him up. Panic drove them all, surging through their pained and frightened bodies. Legolas righted himself quickly, but not fast enough to protect himself against a slash across his thigh. The Elf groaned as the world blurred in pain and tears, and he immediately pressed a shaking hand to the wound. Blood gushed through his fingers. The laceration was not deep, but it was enough to shatter his weakening resolve. His calm began to fail him, and with its abandonment the ache of his sick body grew suddenly ten-fold stronger.

"Fall back!" cried Faramir hoarsely.

"My Lord!" came a desperate cry. A brown horse that bore the banner of Rohan pushed closer to them. Upon it was Elfhelm, bloodied, gasping, and terrified. "My Lord! My Lord! King Éomer has been wounded!"

Shock like freezing water washed over Legolas, and his heart nearly halted in its frantic beat.  _No! No!_  Faramir's face grew even paler, starkly white in contrast to the dirt and blood upon it. His mouth fell open, but no sound escaped his lips. Legolas felt his fingers grip his sword tighter until the hilt hurt his hand.  _Please let this not be true! We cannot lose him!_

"How badly?" the steward finally managed.

Elfhelm shook his head numbly. "I do not know, sir. We must retreat. We have suffered grievous losses!"

Retreat. It was the only option. More and more Easterlings flooded onto the blood-soaked field. They could not continue to hold this land, not when so many had already died. Not with Éomer injured. Indecision tore Faramir's stern countenance. The consequences of resigning this battle seemed insignificant to the repercussions of continuing it. Then the steward released a short breath, shaking his head. His eyes spoke of his absolute despair. Taking a deep breath, he cried loudly over the din, _"Retreat!"_

The order spread like wildfire through the army. The infantry scrambled to back away and disengage the enemy. Panic ruled the moment as men lowered their guards in shock, only to be killed or knocked to the ground. Echoes of Faramir's scream went up and down the field. With a frenzy that was absolutely uncontrollable, the forces of Gondor turn and ran towards the eastern front where the only bridge across the rivers yet stood.

Legolas grabbed his bow, turning around in the saddle to shoot behind him as Arod began to follow Hasufel in a full gallop. The arrow caught a pursuing man in the neck, and he fell, disappearing under the crush of the stampede. Another shot whizzed past them, dangerously close to Arod's head. Startled, Legolas reached into his quiver for another arrow and turned around sharply. Quickly he fitted it and lifted his bow, drawing back on the string strongly.

And the world exploded in pain.

Something in his left side tore in sheer agony. Warmth spread quickly along his ribs, and all the breath fled his lungs. His mouth opened in a soundless cry as the excruciating hurt jolted over his hapless body like lightning. Whatever meager calm that had before held back the agony finally snapped, and his body was suddenly not his own. There was no air. The world spun and spun, and then he was falling.

Falling.

He hit something hard suddenly, and his head struck. Now he was staring at serene blue. A million tiny fingers tickled his skin. Vaguely he heard a great throb of noise, but it seemed terribly far away. Words filled his ears, but he could make no sense of them. "Legolas! Legolas! Curse you, foul beast! Turn around! Go back!  _Legolas!_ "

The pain faded. No longer was it stabbing into him with fiery rage. It became dull, dull and distant. Some part of his muddled mind realized he was on the ground, and that the blue was the clear sky above him, the tickling fingers were the leaves of grass below him. But this meant little, his mind lethargic and unable to understand. He felt hot all over, as though a blaze had claimed him, and he turned his head a bit. The cool soil leeched a bit of the heat from his cheek.

There were people beside him. More voices. "What happened? Was he hit?"

"I do not know! I did not see!"

He thought to move, to speak, but for some inexplicable reason the intention could not become action. It was as though his mind had suddenly disconnected from his body, leaving him detached and his limbs useless and leaden. Something was pulling on his neck. The pendant had come free, it seemed, from his clothes, and it lay atop his breast. He watched it, entranced by the play of red on his chest. So long did he look, for it had taken the attention of his numb mind, and struggling was beyond his means. Sight and sound. Reality and nightmare.

Life and death.

"Legolas? Legolas! Look at me! Ai, what has happened to him?"

That voice was strangely recognizable. A spark of fear ignited within him, and he pulled finally from the lulling sparkle of the gem. By that time, though, it was too late. Darkness encroached upon his vision. By a great amount of will he was able to force his gaze up. The blue sky was replaced with a blurry, familiar face.

_Faramir…?_

He knew not if he spoke. Oblivion reached up and grabbed him. He could do nothing as it yanked him down. Blackness took him and devoured the last of his will. He slipped away, abandoning the struggle.

There was nothing of worth for which to fight, anyway, and he was just too tired.


	16. Slings and Arrows

Running. His feet could not carry him fast enough. His body pulsed and pounded as he thundered through the darkened halls of his father's manor, the sound of his slamming steps echoing in the shadows. Breathing. His lungs heaved, straining to deliver enough air to his racing body. He gasped as he rounded a corner, skidding and nearly falling but somehow managing to maintain his balance and continue his flight. Pounding. His heart thumped wildly in his chest, terror and panic driving it in its mad pace. Fire spread over his body as it strained, pushing all the speed it could from muscles and bones and flesh. Crying. Tears bled from his eyes, streaming down his cheeks, bleeding into his flying hair as he ran. His brothers were weeping. None met his gaze as he stopped his frantic sprint, coming to a breathless halt outside the royal chambers. Shameful eyes refused to meet his own. That more than anything confirmed the horrible fear coiling in the pit of his stomach.

"They can do nothing."  _Nothing._

He could not bear the thought of it. Cold hands grabbed the knobs of the double doors and twisted and pulled. The heavy wooden slabs came open with a mighty yank, and he shot inside.

"It is too late."  _No._

His father's empty eyes turned upon him. The blue orbs, often ageless and powerful, were now weak with tears and rage. For a moment he stood still, unable to move, transfixed by his father's lifeless stare. Perhaps he sought denial, but if there had been any hope, his king's cold expression destroyed it. There was no hope, no chance. There was no way to make this not true.

Then his father looked away, his regal stature slumped piteously as his hair fell about his face. Never before had he seen the king so defeated, so utterly devastated. It terrified him in ways he had not previously thought possible. His breath hitched in his throat as the elder Elf moved away, turning hateful eyes to the floor. Then he could see the bed, swathed in darkness and death. His heart stopped. One of the healers turned to him, and the other's face broke in grief and reluctance. "I am sorry," whispered the Elf. "She is gone."

_Gone._

_No!_

He stumbled forth, wobbly legs suddenly refusing to support his weight much less operate with any sort of grace, and he fell to his knees at the bedside. There was red covering the linens, soaking through the sheets and spilling to the floor. The horror touched his eyes, invading his innocent mind, and the world shattered. He had only been gone but a few minutes! He had only left with the patrol to hunt down the Orcs that had attacked… But a few minutes! Only that!

But he was too late. Tears came in a great, hot deluge. Sobs welled up in his throat as his vision blurred. Desperately his heart pounded, his spirit struggling in violent grief to somehow change this crushing fact. His young form shook in powerful sorrow, his restraint failing him.

A pale hand rested limply in the bed. Blood covered slender, elegant fingers, the same fingers that had braided his hair for him when he was child, the same fingers that had wiped away his tears, the same fingers that had soothed bumps and tickled him into laughter. Without thought he reached for it with his own shaking hand, taking the bloodied, lifeless digits into his own. His thumb swept down the soft skin. He could not make his eyes look beyond that hand. Sucking in a deep breath was all he could do to stifle a scream of utter despair.

"Mother," he whispered.

The hand did not tighten about his. There was no breath from the still body. A memory flitted across his stricken mind. He was but a child, creeping about in the earliest hours of morning, coming up beside the bed of his slumbering parents. His father had not allowed his sons to venture into their private bedchamber, but it had been his begetting day, and he was too excited to remain in solitude in his own room. His mother had only smiled at him, reaching down silently to pull his wriggling little self into bed with her. She had smelled of leaves and flowers, her long body warm and soft against his, her embrace strong and comforting. How he loved her! He had failed her.

" _Mother!"_  he wailed.

All faded from him as he cried, long and hard. Sense slipped away, leaving him reeling in blackness that was profound and fathomless. Eventually even the violent rage, the endless grief, and the crushing guilt abandoned his tormented body. He sank into the void, alone. Empty. There was nothing.  _Nothing._

* * *

Voices came to him. They sounded terribly distant and muffled, and for what seemed to be forever he simply ignored them. The hold unconsciousness had upon him was simply too comforting, for here there was no pain and no fear. He was content to remain within its warm apathy, tired of obligation and ambition. It seemed terribly decadent and selfish to desire such a thing, but he could not deny the want of his weary and bitter heart. So he simply disregarded all perception, unwilling to acknowledge that life existed beyond this peaceful emptiness.

But the voices persisted. Soft they were, but slowly they gained volume and insistence, poking their whispering way into the shrouds of indifference. His senses began to break from the void, and the mesh of sound slowly separated into words.

"It is too late."

"It cannot be!"

"Too much of it has infected him. We can do nothing."

The void slipped away, fear and confusion forcing his lethargic mind away from the solace of silence. There was no returning to the quiet now, and slowly things returned to him. Sudden realization stabbed through him, leaving a dull agony in its wake, and he fought to regain awareness. His body throbbed and his head felt as though it was stuffed with wool. Where was he? When was he? The pain allowed him no logical thought, stealing from him his will to face his surroundings. It became too powerful an adversary, beating down his weak spirit, and easily he resigned himself to the abyss of unconsciousness again.

"Legolas?"

Comfort was firmly snatched from him by the cruel hands of reality. Harshly he was shoved from the peaceful oblivion, and suddenly he felt and heard and smelled and tasted. His eyes snapped open. At first he saw nothing but blinding light, and his head pounded powerfully in fiery hurt at the sudden pain. He groaned, clenching his teeth to combat the driving nausea clawing at his throat. Only when the wave of excruciating agony subsided did the blurriness of his vision abate.

"He is waking. Thank Eru! He wakes!" There was more talk, hushed and frantic, and then the sound of running footsteps. A cool hand fell upon his brow. Another wrapped in his own. A pale face framed by long dark locks appeared over him. The person's skin was terribly white, bright and fair, glowing majestically. Pink lips pulled into a gentle smile, blue eyes loving but terribly worried. They glistened in unshed tears.

He recognized the face slowly. "Arwen?" he rasped. It hurt to speak, so dry was his mouth. His throat veritably burned, and his teeth ached mercilessly. Had he been of a clearer state of mind he might have noted the utter peculiarity of how he felt; sickness so strong and debilitating was a frightening unknown to him, and he was simply overwhelmed by these alien and distressing experiences. Thirst tormented him, though, and he could think of nothing else but alleviating it. "Water."

The slender hand holding his squeezed, and another head materialized. Golden hair was pulled from a white face and fastened behind a long neck to prevent the locks from interfering in work. Éowyn. She had a cup of clear liquid, and she leaned over him. He wanted to sit up, but his leaden body would not heed his commands. Distress claimed his face, distress that Arwen immediately noticed. Together with Éowyn, the two women helped him raise his head, the queen laying an arm beneath his shoulders in support as the Lady of Rohan tipped the cup to his dry, cracked lips.

Legolas drank quickly. The cool water felt glorious upon his tongue, gently assuaging the parched agony of his mouth. "Easy," Éowyn admonished softly. Tender was the press of her cold fingertips against his burning cheek as she pulled away the now empty vessel.

The Elf fell back gasping, struggling to fill heaving lungs. Darkness pulled at his spirit once more, singing to him an easing lullaby that promised safety and succor. His body shook in pain, but he only gritted his teeth and tried his best to disregard the hurt. A need to understand suddenly fueled his battered body, and he would not rest until his questions were answered. Wild eyes glanced around the room. He recognized it immediately to be his quarters in the Citadel of Minas Tirith. His bed was firm and soft beneath his throbbing back. Night was soon in coming, for long, afternoon shadows stretched across the room as the setting sun peeked through the window. The air was fresh and crisp, but somehow at once it caressed pleasantly and cut coldly. How had he come to be here? He grew frustrated at his addled thoughts, since they offered him no definitive answers and left him lost and frightened. This utter tumult of terror and confusion vexed him beyond measure. Finally, after struggling frantically against wisps of visions, memory that was once disjointed and sluggish in formed a cohesive and comprehensible timeline and became clear. The echoes of a raging battle slammed against the confines of his skull. Emyn Nimsîr. The field. Gimli. Faramir. Éomer. "Éomer!" he gasped, writhing against restraining hands.

Arwen shared a worried look with Éowyn before shushing her suffering friend. The queen grabbed his hand and lifted it, her touch calming and firm, as she pushed him gently down. "He is well, Legolas. Lay still."

The sudden action left him wheezing in dizziness and pain. "Gimli… and Faramir… Where are they?"

"Here, Elf," came a worried rumble from beyond Arwen. Gimli neared the bed slowly. His form was now clean of the mud and blood that had previously coated it. His rusty hair fell all about his shoulders. His ruddy face was scrunched in a dismayed frown, his eyes lowered and black in unspeakable grief.

Legolas licked his lips for they had become dry again. The simplest of acts drained him of his energy. Knowing his friends were alive and healthy after that harrowing fight was enough to deprive him of further concentration, and when he let go of his will, the pain rushed to consume him like a predator finally catching its hapless meal. Suddenly he shook and bent with spasms, every muscle of his body contracting violently. There was no escape from the torment, the agony blazing as it raced up and down him, and he could do naught but simply ride out its torturous waves. His heart boomed in his ears, and he could barely breathe.

Arwen's face broke in helpless grief as Legolas' grip about her hand turned painfully tight. "Hold on, my friend," she whispered in Elvish. "Estel has gone to fetch stronger medicine. He will be back soon. Peace."

The words hardly registered. The pain was so terrible that all thought, all sense abandoned the suffering shell that had become his body. It was as though his spirit was beating against the confines of his flesh, fighting to free itself and seek refuge from the affliction. Hot tears leaked from eyes squeezed shut, and his breath came in horribly short gasps. Whimpers escaped through clenched teeth. He felt himself being lifted gently, and softness came behind him. Vaguely he realized he was being settled into somebody's lap, most likely for comfort. He struggled weakly, but another set of cool hands grabbed his wrists and forced him to be still.

Gentle fingers combed through his unbound hair. "Peace, Legolas. Look at me. Do not think of the pain. Please!" Arwen's melodic voice somehow penetrated the blaze of his suffering. Desperate for anything beyond hurt, he grabbed her with all his floundering strength, struggling violently to simply do as she asked. Blue eyes entrenched in fever and delirium focused blearily on her beautiful face, and she smiled thinly. "Yes. Just look at me, and it will pass. Éowyn, a damp cloth for his fever rages." A breath later a wet compress wiped gently down his face. The cool, rough texture of the swatch was somehow extremely pleasant. Arwen was speaking again, her voice gaining a frantic edge. "Go, Gimli, and find Aragorn. Tell him to hurry!"

"My Lady, what ails him so?" Gimli's voice was hard in barely contained rage and despair.

A shaking sigh. "It is the poison. Please, Master Dwarf, go with all speed." There was silence for a moment, and then a firm harm came to rest momentarily on Legolas' lower leg. The sound of running came after that, loud and quick.

A muddled thought came to him.  _Poison?_  But he was unable to hold it, and it slipped back into the haze his consciousness had become. Another wave of the pain hit him then, and his fingers tightened instinctively in Arwen's dress. The queen held him closer, one arm wrapped about his chest, the other caressing his sweat dampened hair. Éowyn's long fingers undid the ties of his loose tunic, spreading the white cloth wide to free his neck and chest. Legolas jerked, squinting and rasping for breath, as the dripping cloth touched his bare skin. The pain took him, squeezing his heart tighter and tighter, and he could only moan while Arwen whispered comfort to him. The agony stole his world, piece by piece. He wanted to breathe. He wanted to scream his misery. But his body would not respond. Unconsciousness had become impish, remaining just out of his reach no matter how he strained for it, teasing and taunting him but never coming close enough to relieve his suffering. There was nothing to feel but the hurt, and he was drowning in it.

Finally the ruthless demon released him. Legolas choked on his sobs as he weakly fell back against Arwen. His eyes slipped shut as exhaustion came over him. He heard voices, but he could make no sense of them. The struggle had stripped his mind of his sense of self and left his wailing spirit mauled and bloodied. "My Queen, he is fading."

A cool palm pressed over Legolas' brow. His half-lidded gaze refused to focus on the blurry face above him. "We must draw the fever from his head. Help me raise him, Éowyn." Arwen said more, but Legolas did not comprehend her rushed words. His body was lifted; he had no strength to struggle despite the dazed fear that came over him. He only moaned helplessly as each of his arms was draped over the shoulders of another. Éowyn wrapped her hand about the ill Elf's waist, her face pale and distressed, as the two carefully helped Legolas stand.

"No," the archer managed to gasp. Bile rose up in the back of his throat as the room spun and spun. "Please!"

Arwen's voice was soothing as she steadied him. Blue eyes glowed brightly in love and worry. "It is alright," she assured him, her tone soft. She brushed the hair from his pale face. "You are safe."

There was a murmur of sound, and then they were moving. Legolas stumbled, his body leaden and heavy, but Éowyn and Arwen supported him. Then they were undressing him. The Elf leaned heavily into Éowyn's embrace as Arwen pulled his loose breeches down, leaving him only in his underclothes. Nightmare meshed with reality, and her friendly, sisterly touch morphed hideously into the groping fingers of a renewed terror. Though horror claimed him, he was unable to act, his body detached from his writhing spirit. He stood, mute and weeping, as he endured again the torment.

Cold air struck his bare chest with the strength of a sharp kick, and he crumpled in Éowyn's arms. The woman stumbled under his weight, but Arwen was quick help her with the burden. With his clothing gone, the horror of his wounds was striking. His left side and chest were mottled messes of purple and red, inflamed and bruised tenderly. The puncture wounds on his shoulder from the battle at Cair Andros so many days past were now swollen and bloody. If they had ever healed at all, it was not readily apparent. A mess of scrapes and cuts covered his figure from his fall from Arod. The slash across his thigh had obviously been tended before, but blood still seeped from the stitched skin. The worst of it was a gaping hole in his right abdomen, for it was hideous and he could not remember receiving it. Had he been struck in the battle? As if angry that he had previously been blissfully ignorant of it, the vicious wound began to pulse in heated fury. The pain dissuaded him from trying to sort through the morass of memory, and he just accepted this wound as though it were a simple matter. Compared to the illness coursing through his veins, it was just another hurt.

Legolas drifted in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware that he was being clumsily lifted. Then he struck ice. He snapped from his delirious stupor as numbing pain spread all over his body, screaming his distress. It took a moment for his muddled senses to correctly identify the source of the hurtful cold.

He shivered violently as he was made to sink into the lukewarm bath water. The liquid was heavy and harsh to his skin and he wheezed, unable to draw breath enough to sob. Arwen knelt beside him, pushing the sleeves of her rose gown up in a rather unladylike fashion. She pulled the mass of Legolas' hair from the water and gently set it outside the tub. She spoke to Éowyn in a hushed tone, asking her friend to acquire some type of herb and hot water. The Lady of Ithilien nodded curtly before rising from her crouch with a swish of blue skirts.

Eventually the cool water proved to be pleasant. The haze slowly cleared from his head as Arwen tenderly washed his burning skin with a soft cloth. Strange ideas popped up from the murk within him, the random flow of his thoughts grotesque and pointless. It took a great deal of his will to concentrate on anything. He conjured up whatever energy and courage he could, though, for this matter abruptly attained great import. "Fethra?" he whispered faintly, weakly grasping Arwen's hand as she carefully cleaned the dried blood from his left shoulder.

She offered him a comforting smile and squeezed his fingers. "You need not worry," answered the Elf as she resumed her ministrations. "She is well. Lady Ioreth cares for her still." Relief cascaded down his back in chills as the heat began to leave his head. Fatigue left him shivering. Now unconsciousness abandoned its mulish games and opened its arms to his weary spirit. His eyes shut again.

Time passed without his recollection. Impalpable sensations whirled ceaselessly about him, as if he was detached from the world and beyond its workings. There was the opening of the door. A winded, deep tone. Softer replies. Painful quiet. "Legolas, you must wake to drink this," came a man's concerned voice. A cup was tipped to his lax lips, and a warm, foul-tasting liquid spilled into his mouth. He vaguely recalled coughing and choking, swallowing the repugnant stuff only because he was given no other choice. Soft hands lifted him. He was moved again and patted dry. He was dressed in clean and fresh-smelling clothes were loose and comfortable upon his body.

Then he was returned to his soft, warm bed. The bath and the medicine had eased his pain enough to allow the last of his thoughts to quiet. Tender lips caressed his brow as he was settled into the blankets and pillows. From the world he finally escaped, slipping into a soundless and sightless void where not even the pain could reach him.

* * *

When Legolas again awoke, his mind was not so overthrown. His eyelids felt heavy and stubborn, but the whine of his conscience refused to submit the needs of his body any longer. He forced the comforting oblivion of rest aside and swam through the deep and endless black, seeking to be free from the restraining holds of sleep. Questions he had before ignored now needled him, demanding his attention, screaming for resolution. That more than anything tore him from the void, and after some moments spent shifting in that state between dream and reality, he finally returned to the world.

The Elf at first saw nothing aside from shadows punctuated by the flickering of golden and yellow light. There was the sound of crackling and popping, of wood snapping angrily as fire devoured it. Soft whispering came to him. Then he began to feel. His body ached terribly. Though now it was without the violence of earlier, the dull agony claimed every inch of him. His side throbbed, his leg pulsed, and his stomach felt crushed by the angry wound upon his belly. The pain was slow to settle to a reasonable level, its initial blast harsh and taxing. Only when he could tolerate it did he again open eyes that he had squeezed shut. This time energy and frustration forced him into action.

A dark form rested in a chair beside his bed. "Arwen?" he croaked softly, disgusted by the rough sound of his own voice. The hunched shadow did not move. Legolas struggled to sit up, but his body hardly heeded his call. His lethargy and weakness upset him terribly, but he only blinked back the frustrated tears that filled his eyes. He would hide in shadow no longer. "Arwen!"

There came a sharp of intake of breath. "Aragorn, he awakes!" The Elf turned his head sharply at the unexpected voice, surprise rushing over him and leaving him dizzy. Gimli stumbled stiffly from his chair and quickly came to stand at Legolas' bedside. The Dwarf's eyes twinkled in teary relief. "Aragorn!"

The bent figure in the chair raised its head tiredly. At seeing Legolas' awakening, the shadow shot forward, bursting into the light of the warm fire that burned in the room's hearth. Aragorn's face was ragged and weary, but his gaze immediately shone in newfound ease. "Legolas," breathed the ranger weakly in surprise. The man knelt beside the bed.

Legolas swallowed, trying to moisten his mouth enough to speak properly. "What has happened?"

"Gimli, get him some water," ordered Aragorn softly. The Dwarf seemed reluctant to turn away from the bed for even a moment, so strong was his worry over his Elven friend. He stood and went to the tray upon the desk where the water pitcher and glasses had been left. Aragorn moved closer and laid his hand on Legolas' forehead. "What do you remember?" asked the man gently. Something frightening and unusual was haunting his gray eyes, pushing to the surface every so often before again hiding behind relief and brotherly affection.

Legolas fumbled to make sense of his muddled thoughts. Though things were still not terribly clear, at the moment his lucidity permitted him faculty enough to sort through dream and truth and designate each appropriately. Gimli returned with the glass of water, and with the help of his friends, the Elf prince managed to sit up enough in bed to drink the cool liquid. Legolas squinted. "I recall Emyn Nimsîr. The Easterlings… they had orchestrated a ploy, and we fell to their cunning. There was a great fight… in the center of the field. Faramir fell, and Éomer was wounded." The Elf's face grew taut in painful remembrance, his eyes distant with the troublesome thoughts. "We were forced to retreat…" The task grew difficult; so little was clear to him! All he could be certain of was the pain, for that had been his only constant, his only reminder of life. "I… I am not sure."

"You were hit with an arrow," Aragorn supplied sadly. His eyes shimmered in the unsteady light. "Faramir pulled you atop Hasufel. The army fled and returned to Minas Tirith. Many died." The king's voice was strained by unspoken rage. "Éomer was struck by a spear, but he is well now. The wound was not overly serious. He rests easily."

This was so much information. Legolas felt lost in the quick words spilling from his friend's tongue. "And Emyn Nimsîr?"

Gimli exhaled slowly, sharing a dark, knowing look with Aragorn. "Those monsters did not touch it. It was all a trap. Those vile demons! Have they no honor, no sense of virtue in battle… no pride?" The short creature's accent made his rough words deep and vicious, his hatred powerful and consuming.

Legolas simply could not believe such a thing possible. Anger rolled over him, driving frustrated energy into limp, unresponsive limbs. Frustration and shame burned him. How could they have been so foolish? It had all been a terrible deception, and they had unwittingly acted the pawns. He fumed silently, the blackness of the oppressive night matching his mood. "Why would they do such a thing?" he finally asked, lifting burning eyes to his friends. "What did they gain?"

Aragorn sighed, bothered by the mere thought of the matter. "That we could not unravel. Emperor Holis seems as utterly perplexed as we are. The Haradrim lost nearly all they sent in the fight. Holis wondered if perhaps they hoped that… I be part of the war party." The king sighed, clearly frustrated and disgusted. "They know much of us and our nation, it seems, and they anticipated that I would want to join the battle. The attack was a chance to flush the foolish King of Gondor into the open." Aragorn refused to meet Legolas' eyes, his own gaze averted in furious shame. "It was only by some stroke of luck that that law prevented me from leaving Minas Tirith."

Legolas sensed his friend's strange melancholy. "We are fortunate that you heeded it," commented the Elf. Though his voice was weak, he meant for the words to comfort his forlorn friend. Aragorn did not turn to him, though, and the ranger's fist curled tightly into the blankets upon the bed. Legolas' heart sped in confusion and a bit of fear. His eyes widened, his breath becoming short in aching lungs. A droplet of water fell slowly from Aragorn's hidden face and struck the sheets. The sight stabbed Legolas with urgent despair. Had something happened? "What? What pains you so? Is Faramir…"

"No," Gimli murmured, his own voice thick with emotion. The Dwarf turned away his face when the Elf sought to analyze it for answers.

This was becoming too much for Legolas, and the Elf slumped weakly when his tired body refused to support him any longer. His frustrated and angry gaze went back and forth between his two friends. A sudden thought occurred to him. His heart sped in painful worry. Hazy memories floated about his riled mind, and he began to doubt whether or not he had truly heard Arwen assure him of Fethra's safety. It seemed real enough, but certainty could not come to him. He recalled so little with any amount of clarity. Had he dreamt it? Could he have dreamt it? Would his mind have conjured up such a lie to ease the suffering upon a soul already breaking with sorrow?

"You are dying, Legolas."

Silence.

At first he had not heard Aragorn's soft words, so entrenched in doubt and fear was he over Fethra's well-being. The sounds carried no meaning, entering his head but producing no sense of purpose or substance. Then he breathed, and in that instant, it struck him. The air left his lungs, the blood left his heart, and his mind fumbled to understand. He was so utterly shocked and terrified that he could do nothing but deny. His lips moved, noise erupting from his dry throat. "What? What did you say?" That was nonsense. He had heard. He had heard all too clearly. But his heart allowed him no other reaction. This could not be true! Surely Aragorn was jesting, or if not, over-reacting. Surely this was but one more nightmare, one more crack of his sanity, one more moment of paranoid harassment! He turned imploring eyes upon his friend, hoping,  _begging_  for some iota of evidence that would support his denial. Aragorn was wrong. He was simply wearied by all that had happened and had made a mistake…

But Aragorn did not speak. He did not turn. He did not even breathe.

There was no mistake.

It was true.

Legolas did not speak for a long time. Thought abandoned him, his will leaving him with each shuddering breath. Everything was painfully steady for the first time in days. The world had closed about him, leaving only this one fact. There was no doubt, no need to question, no other choice. There was nothing over which to spend restless nights contemplating. Uncertainty. Hesitation. What good were these things against such truth? There were no weapons with which he could combat it, nothing that he might bear against the strength of fate. Crushing and final, it could not be changed.

With such a realization arrived the panic, strong and swift. It took him, and his spirit raged against the injustice. His breaths came faster and faster until he was panting mindlessly. Denial offered him nothing but false security. Defiance would deliver naught but exhaustion. He was helpless. Helpless!

A desperate sob broke from his lips and he tasted salty tears. Pain came then, pain like nothing he had ever before experienced. But this was not the hurt of bruises or lacerations or broken bones. This was a blow to his soul, to everything he was as an Elf. His kind was immortal! Never should such an end come upon their endless life! This was not a pain he understood. Normally he was a master at controlling his suffering, at riding the ebbing tides of hurt to remain strong, powerful, and capable. Slowly over these days had that ability been stripped from him, and now, now when he was faced with the darkest hour of his life, he had nothing left with which to defend himself. Everything he knew was shifting, falling, breaking. Everything he had was fading and useless. Everything he was…

_Deny. It is all you can do. This is false! Deny!_

"No," he moaned. "Please, Aragorn! Why would you say such a thing?"

Tears spilled from his friend's shameful eyes. A shaking breath rattled between Aragorn's lips. The man's mouth hung open, but from it no sound issued. It was just as well; words could not change this truth anymore than they could ease Legolas' agony. A terrible quiet came over the three friends, dark and vast, and there was nothing but tears to fill it. Gimli's wet face was turned down, as though he did not want Legolas to find confirmation of the truth in his dark eyes. Aragorn refused to look at him. No one breathed. Only the fire snapped and cracked, and its noise was incredibly loud and violent in the stillness. How easily it destroyed something once strong and ageless. How simply it ripped flesh from flesh and reduced substance to smoke and heat. How completely it turned something into nothing.

Legolas shuddered helplessly. The apathy was beginning to wear away, and the physical pain returned to torment his body. He squeezed his eyes shut and moaned. Aragorn was speaking, filling the void with the horrific facts. They pounded in Legolas' heart like a tolling bell, like an axe splitting wood. "Ai, you have been poisoned… Long has this been in your body! I blame myself for not seeing it sooner… I failed you so completely. I am so sorry! So very sorry!" His words came quicker and quicker, laced with unspeakable hurt and quivering rage. "You must have become infected at Cair Andros. Only that could explain your wounds failing to heal, your insomnia, and your nightmare…" Could it? Legolas struggled to make sense of this all, although in the face of imminent disaster it appeared to matter little. Had all of his suffering been simply the product of an invisible toxin that had only now exerted its final and true effects? "The arrow that struck you was coated in it. It is a foul thing that works quickly to murder its victim. I have seen it destroy men in a matter of hours… But you are Elf-kind, and that has slowed its progression, and you lasted many days in its throes though – "

"How long?" Legolas heard himself ask.

Grief shone in Aragorn's dark eyes. "A day. Maybe two."

The Elf looked up and held his friend's gaze. Neither looked away, both searching the other for some small bit of comfort. "And there is no cure?"

Lifelessly Aragorn whispered, "I can only ease your pain."

_It is too late. I am sorry. They can do nothing._

_Nothing._

He closed his eyes and sank deeply into the bed, wishing idly that the soft blankets and mattress could somehow suck him down and hide him from this monstrosity. But the bed and the shadows and the lies could not shield him. There was no where he might run, no place that might conceal him. No hope. Hot tears spilled from his eyes, bathing his fevered skin, and dizziness crushed him against his bed. Everything faded in the moment, leaving only a grief stronger than any he had ever before known. Inexplicably the hazy dream of his mother's death returned to him, eager to add its own particular melancholy. His mother… How he had hated that day! The attack had come so suddenly, though all of Mirkwood had been aware of Dol Guldur's newest attempts to rid the dark forests of the wood Elves. Only later, in the wake of death and destruction, had the shame and rage over their own false sense of security came full force. How the vile monsters had infiltrated the palace deep inside the mountain the Elves had never understood. The attack had been swift and maliciously violent. His mother, alone in the royal chambers, had been one of the first to fall. And when Legolas had returned from the fight…

The Elf now weakly rolled over and sobbed. He cursed the viciousness of fate, the cruel unfairness of this all! The tears that had threatened for days and days came free in a torrent. A hand touched his shoulder and attempted to pull him from the protective, curled position his body had assumed. He tensed and refused; he had no wish to face them! Rage rushed over him, arcing through his throbbing body like lightning. How dare they presume to comfort him! How dare they think to speak their shallow promises, their empty consolation! How dare they! His voice would not come to him, though, and he was breathless in suffering the fury. Why had he been chosen? What had he done to deserve such a terrible demise? Death was a foreign thing to his race, a great unknown that not many of the Firstborn was forced to face. But when it came upon them, death was a sudden and unexpected event. Elves were made resilient against disease and injury, the power of Middle Earth endowing them with strength and endurance. They did not wither in ailment. They did not linger in twilight. This was not right! So many times had he faced death, had he willingly stood before a perilous fight and stood tall against his potential demise… Always had his belief been that, should he die, he would do so bravely in battle. He would with honor and dignity meet such a fate, alongside his comrades and friends, fighting for what he treasured, for his beliefs. This was not the way he wished to end his life! He had known much death in his long years: his grandfather, countless friends and comrades during patrols and skirmishes and the Battle of the Five Armies and the War of the Ring, his mother, Haldir of Lórien, Tathar… But they had been blessed by a short death. They had not been given time to regret, to hurt, to grieve.

_A day. Maybe two._

He did not wish to wait!  _If you call for me, take me now!_  cried his hurting heart.  _Do not do this to me. Please, I beseech you! If I must die, please, allow me some peace, some dignity!_

The hand upon his shoulder became strong and frantic. "Legolas! Legolas! Please!" The voice was a throaty whisper riddled with fear and sorrow. The Elf barely heard the words, curled tightly upon himself, lost to the world in his ultimate anguish. Still, his friends were too stricken with their own guilt and despair to weather the sight of his turmoil. It was Gimli whose great hands were upon him, pushing him gently back into the pillows. "Do not give up hope. I beg you! There are still things we might try…" The Dwarf shared a firm look with Aragorn, as if forcing the idea upon the forlorn king. Legolas was falling in and out of consciousness, blinking listlessly as Gimli's blurry form shifted in and out of focus. A large palm fell upon his brow. " _Please_ , Legolas. You must not abandon hope! Fight!" Gimli's rough voice was choked with unshed tears. "If not for yourself, my friend, then for me. You do not know the depths of my hurt at the thought of losing you. My soul shrivels in shame, for it was I who allowed you to fight and it was my negligence that made possible your fall." The Dwarf's tone dropped to a weak whisper. "Do you remember what I told you? Many years there are before us. Many years! I cannot bear the thought of your death before mine. I cannot bear it! If you leave me, I shall crumble and fade from this world, I am sure of it."

"Gimli…" the Elf whispered hoarsely, his eyes coming open at the sight of his dear friend's tears.

The Dwarf gave a weak smile, his lips shaking with the pathetic attempt. "So you see, Elf, should you give up this fight, you will kill us both. No Dwarf has ever died from grief; such a frivolity is the weakness of Elves alone. I will not be the first. Do you understand me?" Stubby fingers wiped away embarrassing wetness from his cheeks. "I will not have it! You are stronger than this. I have seen you surmount every obstacle with only the most infuriating of elegance and poise. You can defeat this. I know you can!"

Legolas sobbed, hot tears rolling down his temples and streaking into his hair. "I cannot…" he moaned, pain striking him once more. Whatever he had before been given to ease the physical duress was now fading and doing so swiftly.

"You will. You must!" Gimli gasped, keeping his face close to Legolas', his dark eyes blazing with anger and worry. Legolas' face crumpled in ruin as the terrible agony returned. "Aragorn…" said the Dwarf, concern rising in his tone.

The ranger's dark form shifted rapidly beside the bed, but the ill Elf was hardly aware of the movement. The hurt had come back with a vengeance, searing through his hapless body with a cruel intensity that drove his heart into a thundering panic. The pain was brutal. He wished only to die, for now that alone would end this!

"Hurry with the broth!" Gimli gasped. He turned back to Legolas' weakly writhing form beside him, pulling his own stout body closer to his friend's. Legolas' face glistened with sweat and tears as he gasped and rasped, fighting against unseen demons that seemed to rip at his very flesh. "Squeeze my hand, Elf," Gimli offered, grasping the archer's shaking fingers. "You will not hurt me. Scream if you need. None shall hear it." Legolas was conscious and angry enough to shake his head against the unbecoming idea. Frustrated and furious, Gimli refused to allow decorum to restrain him. "Scream, Legolas! Do not hold this within you!"

That was incentive enough. The meager remains of his honor were shredded by the harsh talons of his suffering, and he released a keening wail of utter misery. The ear-piercing cry echoed through the room, but he had no time to think much of it before another wave of agony took him. For what seemed like forever to the Elf and his friends, the torment continued, and the room veritably shook with the strength of Legolas' pain. The prince barely drew breath enough to continue to cry his despair, the ragged screams punctuated by only short wheezing. Aragorn sat on the bed on Legolas' other side, sharing a teary, terrified glance with a mortified Gimli before gently laying his weight upon Legolas' struggling body to keep the Elf still. They could hardly afford to permit the tearing of his wounds.

Finally the attack passed. Legolas lingered in the moment, shivering, winded. The fiery agony was slow to recede, but when it did, his body throbbed dully and his head pulsed. He lay still, struggling to regain his senses. When he did, dizziness pounded into him, and nausea came unbidden. His throat clenched. "Aragorn – "

The ranger understood immediately what the Elf needed, pushing his arm beneath his friend's shaking shoulders and pulling the heaving archer into his arms. The ranger had apparently anticipated this, rapidly dragging Legolas closer to the edge of the bed and supporting him as he vomited the contents of his twisting stomach into an empty water basin. The torment continued until he had expelled all he had, and even then he shook in great, dry heaves and harsh coughs. Aragorn remained through it all, his strong hands gentle and comforting.

At last the torture ceased, and Legolas sobbed his relief. His friends laid him back into the bed, settling him into the pillows. He struggled to catch his breath, drifting on waves of exhausted relief. His vision cleared eventually. His heartbeat slowed, and fresh air came to his lungs. His head yet throbbed, but the pain was somewhat lessened. It made little sense to him, but inexplicably he felt better.

Legolas drew a deep breath. His mouth tasted terrible, coppery and bitter like blood, but he found he cared little. Aragorn appeared again, holding a cup of steaming liquid. He gave his friend a weak smile. "This will clear your head and control the pain enough so that you might sleep."

He might have thought to repel the offering, but he was simply too hurt and sorrowful to deny the solace sleep provided. Whatever he had previously feared in dream could not reach him now. In a day or so, there would be naught left to reach.

So he permitted Aragorn to help him drink, and the warm liquid slid down a slack throat. His stomach turned slightly, but he did not fight. When he could take no more, Aragorn pulled the cup from his shaking lips. Gimli returned to pull the disarrayed blankets about the shivering Elf. The king glanced at the stout companion once more before laying a warm, callused hand upon his friend's brow. "We  _will_  fight this, Legolas," promised Aragorn, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. The ranger was clearly forcing bravado into his voice, for its timbre trembled. "Be strong. Gimli is right: there are herbs I might yet try." Aragorn's hands folded into his own. "Perhaps… Elladan and Elrohir might know of something that can help you. I have sent word to the northern Dúnedain."

Tears flooded Legolas' eyes. Though he masked it well, Aragorn's desperation was obvious. After Rivendell had emptied, Elrond's twin sons had decided to travel Middle Earth. Once or twice had they visited Gondor and Ithilien, calling upon old friends and wishing their sister well. When they had frequented Ithilien, old camaraderie had quickly resurfaced. Many times in the past had the sons of Elrond borne the unfortunate brunt of the mischievous antics of Legolas and Aragorn. Great bonds had been formed in youth and simpler times that had persisted through war and despair. As Elrond's heirs, they had learned much from their father in the ways of the healing arts. Now, in the wake of the departure of Elrond and Gandalf, they were the most knowledgeable throughout the world of the ancient magics and medicines.

However, nobody had heard from them in months. They were last reported among the northern Dúnedain, with whom their father had held great amiable relations. It was a dark prospect indeed, and both Aragorn and Legolas knew it. Even if the twin Elves were with the rangers of the north, a message would never reach them in time. There was only a day. Two at most. Still, empty hope was better than none. His pride would not allow him to hurt his friend further with his doubt and despair. Perhaps some part of his heart wanted a tiny shred of faith to which he might still cling. Perhaps it was better to die holding to a bit of optimism than to pass without any comfort at all and completely defeated.

Thus he only nodded, offering Aragorn a weak smile. It was all he could manage, but it was enough to placate their rampant fear and sorrow even if they both saw through it. Gimli was heartened by the small exchange, grinning in reassurance. He proudly declared, "Together we can overcome this. I  _know_  we can."

Legolas did not know. But at that moment he did not concern himself with truth or falsehood. For the first time in days he permitted the rush of his friends' love and care to penetrate his defenses and reach his hurting heart. He was not alone. He did not need to suffer in silence any longer. His friends loved him. They would help him and take care of him no matter the revulsion, the grief, or the pain. They would stay with him, warming his darkest hours with the strength of their love, until the very end.

After days of uncertainty and suffering, finally accepting the depths of their affection was simply too much for the stricken Elf. He wept but not in pain or despair. A strange numbness came over his weak body that hid the hurt and disease enough so that his mind might experience a bit of happiness. Perhaps it was borne from Aragorn's medicine. Perhaps it was simply the product of at long last letting go. He was glad then for their tender touches and reassuring words and kind eyes. It did not matter if those touches were only meant to assuage their own guilt, or if those words were empty and full of lies, or if those eyes were filled with tears. There was not the time for such things to burden him. He would need all his strength. It was a futile venture, perhaps, to fight for a body that was inevitably dying, but he would do so for as long as he could. For Éowyn and Arwen. For Fethra and Faramir. For Gimli's sake. For Aragorn's.

"Your friends are with you, Legolas," Aragorn whispered as the Elf's eyes closed. "And we always will be."

A sincere smile crept to the pale, drawn face. As his mind sank into oblivion, he knew this night would hold no serenity for him. The pain lurked constantly, and the fever made wild simple thoughts. He could feel another attack constantly itching at him. This medicine's analgesic effects would dissipate as surely as before, and the torment would return many times during the long, dark hours. Vaguely he realized that relief would never again come to him. The only peace now was that of death.

Still, he did not yearn for such a thing as he had before. At least, not at this moment. He owed his family and friends too much to simply wink out like a flickering candle blown in a bit of breeze. The benefit of the doubt was his only strength, and he held to it with all his might. The love around him was good and powerful, white against the pressing shadows, pure against the foul poison destroying his once ageless and beautiful body. But even the most formidable of actions and feelings at times could not change the course of fate. He fell asleep, knowing that that love would not be enough, but praying that it might be, all the same.

Hope enough to ward away death's shadow. Hope enough to fight the pain.

Hope enough to face a future that was sadly and undeniably absolute.


	17. The Undiscovered Country

The night proved long and hard, torturous and terrible. Many times did the agonizing attacks come, ripping from the delirious and ailing Elf whatever rest he could manage. His body had shaken in chills, burned and ripped with a spiking fever, heaved and coughed in gagging and vomiting. None of Aragorn's medicine stayed down long enough to exert the desired effect, and Legolas was easily taken by the pain. He remained its helpless prisoner through the lengthy hours, chained to its will, beaten by its intensity without repose. Hands had held his quaking body still, warm arms tightening about his form as he had struggled blindly against faceless, voiceless foes. When sleep had come to him, it had been fitful and restless, riddled with grotesque dreams and hazy memories that bled too easily into waking reality. Never did anything last long enough to allow him to make sense of the distorted images. His mind was choked by the poison, his senses lost in a sea of misery and hallucination. Delirium was a cunning monster, and he was defenseless against its sadistic and cruel whims. There were sad dreams and terrible perversions of truth. The death of loved ones. The loss of the Fellowship. Aragorn and Gimli falling at Helm's Deep, crushed in the explosion that he had failed to prevent. Destruction like wildfire claiming Gondor during the horrific siege at the end of the war. The Greenwood burning and his father's manor filled with the dead. That wicked barbed arrow stuck in Faramir's chest, his own hands stained in his dear friend's blood as he ripped and pulled. Memory became dream, dream twisted into nightmare, nightmare stretched into reality, and all was lost to him. He was lost.

Morning came, but its light did not lift the gloom. Dawn thankfully ended the long stretch of darkness, and even the sick Elf emerged from the depths of fever to greet the sun with a weary smile. It was a false hope, a horrid lie. Dawn only meant the passing of hours, the loss of time that would never again be recovered. Dawn only signified chances withering and hopes fading. It was clear to any who had the strength to see that Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood and Lord of Ithilien, hero of the War of the Ring, would not survive to witness this rising sun again set.

Legolas tiredly cracked open one eye. His blurry vision refocused to settle Aragorn's ragged face into one position. He could hardly keep his dry eyes open, the lids heavy and terribly itchy with lack of sleep. The ranger was leaning at the desk, his normally proud shoulders slumping with fatigue and worry. A quill scraped loudly over parchment. The Elf managed a sloppy grin, the muscles of his face lethargic and too strained from twisting in hurt. "Do… do you not have a war to run?" he jested softly.

Aragorn tuned a surprised gaze upon his ailing friend. Though only in the last few minutes had Legolas become lucid enough to take stock of his state and his surroundings, he knew Aragorn had spent the entirety of the night with him, holding him during the worst throes of the fever, wetting his face and chest when the heat had nearly suffocated him, helping him to drink to avoid dehydration. He hated to have put his dearest friend through such torture.

The king just smiled, however, and went back to his writing. "Faramir is tending to it at the moment," he responded. "King's prerogative."

The bright light streaming through the open balcony doors hurt his head, so Legolas closed his eyes as he grinned. "Lazy," he murmured. Warmly Aragorn laughed, glancing up from his work. Legolas breathed easier now. A bit of good fortune had come to them an hour or so ago when finally the archer had managed to keep down a bit of broth and medicine. The pain had diminished to a tolerable level, and his body relished the bit of liquid in his hurting stomach. Lucidity was a wonderful balm to his bleeding spirit, and these moments now were precious indeed. Legolas had never imagined that so simple a thing as seeing and thinking clearly would feel so marvelous.

Of course, here as well was the subtle darkness. Though Aragorn had not said as much, it was obvious that the healer-king was rapidly exhausting his options. Stronger and stronger herbs did he administer to his wilting friend, and with each dose the effect became less and less. The poison was gaining control of Legolas' body, eating alive its natural defenses and forcing away the relief and benefit of the medicines. In a matter of hours, nothing Aragorn could do would influence the progression of the toxin coursing through Legolas' veins. In a matter of hours, he would not even be able to control the pain.

The two friends were silent a moment, the void filled with only the gentle brush of the breeze against the curtains, the scratch of the quill against paper, and the soft wheezing of the Elf. Legolas moistened his mouth enough to speak again. "What is it that… that you so diligently compose?"

Aragorn stopped again, the pen still in his hand. His eyes grew distant, frightened perhaps, and he paused. His breath left him slowly as he looked to the Elf lying in the bed. "It is nothing. Think not of it." He turned back to the parchment, but it was clear his will to complete whatever he scrawled was wavering.

Dry lips pulled into another feeble grin. "You have always been… a truly pathetic liar, Aragorn." The king stiffened at his transparency. He swallowed uncomfortably before gazing upon Legolas once more. The Elf's half-lidded eyes shined ethereally from the fever and drugs. "Tell me what it is."

Another sigh, this one wrought with tension and a tad of hope, fled Aragorn's lips. "It is a peace treaty."

The man's guarded response piqued Legolas' interest despite his fatigue. The Elf forced his eyes open wider, confusion creasing his brow. "A treaty?" he repeated incredulously. He did not like the implication of the idea, and beneath the haze of pain and weariness his heart filled with apprehension.

Aragorn detected his friend's puzzled misgivings. "Emperor Holis believes a formal agreement between Gondor and Harad will intimidate the Easterlings. An allegiance in name perhaps will do more to frighten them than one in theory alone. He proposes a public signing of the contract."

The words were muddled inside Legolas' head, and it took his indolent mind a moment to make sense of them. His eyes closed again; straining to think was only amplifying the splitting head plaguing him. "And… you agree?"

He felt Aragorn shrug. "I see the merit of his argument," answered the king quietly. "The Haradrim suffered great losses at Emyn Nimsîr. If there was any doubt as to their loyalties, I believe that was enough to eradicate it. Such a forfeit is too great for any deceit." Legolas did not answer, swallowing uncomfortably in an attempt to rid his dry mouth of its foul taste. "The Easterlings have not acted since the battle. I believe they wait for us to make a move. Like snakes they slither about, poising to strike a foolish creature. Hopefully if Gondor and Harad unite, we will prove a meal too large for small jaws." Aragorn's voice trailed off, his eyes misted in thought. Silence took them, leaving the soft words to imprint the moment with uncertainty and faith straining to assert itself. Legolas tried to concentrate on the matter, but his mind refused. Soft and vague now was the once pressing suspicion, the screaming agony over a seemingly ancient dream. He would have thought to question this action, perhaps. He might have wished to warn his friend, to bring to light old unresolved tensions, to again force an issue of trust and fear, and to once more speak of his private trauma that had come to him in the night. But the details of it were somehow distant now, even though they had brutalized and tormented him endlessly before. The past was fuzzy and indistinct, as though a wall of frosty ice stood between him and any clear understanding. Everything was distorted and detached.

Then Aragorn's quill began to press ink into the paper again. "But do not think of it, Legolas. It is not important."

The warning he had thought to speak died in his throat, and everything slipped quietly back into the swirl of disconnected consciousness. They did not speak further for a long time, the king darkly writing the future of his country upon a thin sheet of parchment, the prince slipping in and out of awareness. Sickness was a strange thing, truly, and Legolas barely understood the changes occurring to him. His body felt  _dead_  to him, though he could not explain exactly what that meant, and were he not so pained and delirious, he would have been terrified by the foreign and dreadful sensation. He had never thought his own flesh and blood, the very essence of his physical existence with which he had for centuries peacefully harmonized, could so utterly betray him. The fact of it was disgusting, and undeniably the separation of his weary spirit from his dying body grew closer with each moment. Mortality was an alien cruelty to a body once so well endowed with the vibrant glow of nature, of boundless health. Tiredly his eyes observed his own quaking form at times, wondering if truly those were his legs beneath the sheets, if his arms were in reality the heavy weights across his chest, if his hands could possibly be so weak and lifeless. In this, at least, he was grateful for the pain and fever that easily stole from him his means of thought and logic. He did not have the ability to do more than wonder idly at this horrific transformation from immortal, beautiful Elf to mortal, ugly victim. It was as if he was floating outside himself, watching the degradation of his own body with little more than lazy, noncommittal interest. He was glad for that detachment.

Sight and sound. Reality and nightmare. Life and death.

Body and soul. Were such things so discernable? He had once been taught as such. The body was made of the earth, formed of the power of life and the substance of all things real and tangible. The spirit was made of less certain forces, one simple note in an endless song of creation. In worldly existence the two thrived, and without one, the other's time upon this plane was over. Mandos' Halls was the resting place of Elven souls torn from Elven bodies. Very few returned from there, and those that did were given a greater understanding of all things that most never came to realize. Would this higher existence welcome him? Legolas breathed quietly, sinking deeper into the comforting fantasy. Would his soul, once freed from the dying prison of his failing flesh, find peace there? Would he again see those he had lost? His grandfather, Tathar… his mother? Was such a thing possible?

Did eternal tranquility await him?

 _Legolas,_  came the whisper of the wind, of the trees, of the earth.  _Rest awaits you, my child. Do not be afraid._

"Legolas?"

Slowly his eyelids parted. Aragorn's face appeared above him. A weak smile claimed the man's lips. His eyes betrayed the mirth as false, as they were troubled and torn. "The child has come."

Legolas struggled to liberate himself from the void of sleepy contemplation. Had that voice been real? His mind was so groggy that he could find meaning in neither the words of moments ago nor what now Aragorn was trying to tell him. He grew frustrated with his slothful senses. Finally, after what seemed a terribly long, disoriented period, he found both the will and the means to speak. "The child?"

The man's face was forlorn and tight. "Your daughter."

 _My… daughter?_  Had Aragorn just said that? It was not possible! With his death, the pride and strength of the blood of the House of Oropher would completely fade from Middle Earth. When he passed from this place, the last of an ancient and powerful family would disappear. And yet, although he certainly knew these facts beyond any doubt, the thought of otherwise was incredibly pleasing. He sank into it, embracing it despite its fallacy, warmed by its promises. Love. Purpose. A future beyond this terrible fall. For a moment, at least, fantasy became reality.

"Legolas?"

Aragorn's concerned voice and prodding at his shoulder pulled him rather forcefully from the happy moment, leaving only the cruelty of reality. The man's face was broken in concern. "Did you hear me? You were distracted a moment. Fethra is here."

 _Fethra…_  Nay, Aragorn had not spoken those words. The want of his heart could not make it so, and the silly, groundless dream fell away. As quickly as it came the strange thought departed him. Instead there was a quiet whisper of concern that gradually became a shout. In his delirious haze he had nearly forgotten the girl. Sick or no, dying or no, he was still the child's protector, and he had a responsibility to her. Even more than this, though, was a sudden wish. He remembered the warmth of her aura, of her love for him, and abruptly his soul shook in an intense craving for those comforts.

The Elf broke from his momentary stupor. Excitement charged through his body, giving his limbs energy where they had before had none. A sudden recollection came to him and his quivering hand came to grasp at the loose folds of his tunic. Over his chest he felt nothing. Fethra's pendant was gone. Had it fallen from him during the battle? His stomach churned in horror and grief. He could not have lost it! "Where is it, Aragorn?" he asked desperately, his eyes wide in terror.

Aragorn shook his head slightly in exasperation. "Where is what?"

Legolas forced himself to calm enough to explain. Only panic was driving him, and he felt dizzy and sick for it. Swallowing his nausea, he stammered, "A necklace bearing a red jewel. I wore it into battle." His voice was pinched in frantic imploration that Aragorn aid him where his faulty memory and weak body could not.

Confusion held Aragorn's expression a bit longer but then realization passed over his face. The taut expression loosened as he turned and headed towards the desk. Legolas struggled to sit up, bearing his teeth in the strain, for his body was terribly heavy and utterly unresponsive. The king returned a moment later, the silver chain looping from closed fingers. "Legolas, lie still!" exclaimed Aragorn in dismay at seeing his stubborn friend's movements.

"I will not… I will not have her see me like this!" gasped the Elf prince. He had finally succeeded in propping himself up upon his elbows, but the simple act had drained him considerably. He struggled to catch his breath as his body began to ache mercilessly and the room began to spin.

Aragorn was quick to help him. Legolas was far too tired and in too much pain for his bruised ego to care about his dependence upon his friend, succumbing to Aragorn's guiding hands. After a few moments of moaning and fighting, the Elf was as upright as his cramped muscles and serious wounds would permit him to be. Aragorn's firm fingers remained clasped upon Legolas' shoulder for a minute longer. "Are you sure you wish to do this?" questioned the king. There was no insult or pity in his tone.

Finally breath enough found its way to Legolas' straining lungs for him to speak. "Yes," he whispered. His eyes were glazed and his mind numb. There was no doubt. Though it was not said, the terrible truth of it was clear to them both. A paradise of lucidity had been granted to the Elf. If he waited, the poison would take him again as it had the night before. If he delayed, he would be gone to the agony and fever again. It was not a chance he was willing to take.

Aragorn nodded then, submitting to his friend's wishes though it was obvious he was not pleased with them. He took Legolas' slender hand and dropped the pendant into his palm. Then his rough fingers closed over the Elf's own. He said nothing, only offering a weary smile. Then he turned and walked to the chamber's doors. He slipped outside on light footfalls.

Legolas sat in silence for what appeared to him to be forever. It was a moment only, but time had adopted a strange new meaning to him in the face of a death sentence. Times of peace had become short and fleeting. Times of hurt were long, dreary, and vicious. The passage of hours, the ally of Elven kind, had now become his worst enemy.

The Elf sagged wearily against the headboard of the bed. He brought the hand holding the pendant before his eyes, struggling to find peace enough so as not to frighten Fethra. He opened his fingers. The small gem glowed upon his palm, spreading its warm light over his pale skin. After all that happened, given the disasters it had seen, this special jewel sparkled as brightly as it ever had. Never did its glow dim. Immortal.

The door creaked open slowly. His fingers covered the necklace once more, and quickly he looked up.

Éowyn offered him a weak smile as she stepped inside. Aragorn and Arwen followed, though their steps were tentative as though they feared what was about to transpire. In Éowyn's arms Fethra squirmed, the child's eyes growing wide and brightly green at seeing Legolas. The woman came closer, calm and composed. Then she looked away, perhaps in shame, and whispered something soft to the wriggling girl in her embrace. Fethra stopped in her struggles a moment, her eyes never leaving Legolas' despite the soft brush of Éowyn's voice in her ear. The child was set to the bed tenderly. The others stepped back outside, leaving the door ajar. They knew how important this moment was, and it was not their place to participate.

Fethra was terrified. The initial joy of her reunion with him had obviously faded, and she was frightened of the Elf's strange appearance. Legolas' heart throbbed at seeing the doubt and confusion dance brightly in the girl's eyes. She was hesitant to come closer at first, eyeing him as though she was questioning if he was the same person that had days before left her. Though the thought brought tears to his eyes, Legolas found he could not blame her. He was hardly recognizable as an Elf prince, as the strong protector she had once loved.

"Leglass, you're sad again," the child finally said. She watched him with imploring eyes as she scrambled up onto the bed. The others outside shifted, watching in fear that she might inadvertently hurt him. But she stopped beside his legs, afraid to touch him. No longer did she climb joyously into his embrace. No more did her laughter spill from smiling lips. She had seen far too much in her young life, and she was about to again be subjected to forces and fates she could not understand. The innocence of youth was too precious a thing to so harshly and quickly rip away.

It took all of his energy, but Legolas reached out his hand to the girl. She seemed doubtful, eyeing his offered embrace as though he might suddenly radically change into a monster or ghost. Then she succumbed, her chin quivering slightly, and with a weak whimper scrambled to snuggle against his chest.

They said nothing a moment. A terrible lump had come to Legolas' throat, and he could manage no sound. His shaking hand stroked Fethra's mussed hair as she nuzzled her small form to him. Why had it come to this? Desperate were his thoughts, but no matter the straining of his furious, grieving spirit, he could find no answer. Such a terrible injustice! Had fate no love for life, for family, for constancy? The Elf quaked with rage. If a future for them together had been possible at all, now it would never be, and a thousand potential memories from a life denied raced through his head. The weight of his despair pushed tears from his closed eyes. How he despised the wretched working of things… How he hated himself for leaving her!

"How come you're crying, Leglass?"

He opened his eyes and looked down. Fethra watched him with a frightened, wistful gaze. Despite the child's age, she knew something was dreadfully wrong. How could he expect her inexperienced mind to comprehend this? His heart thundered madly with the strength of his emotions, and his blood ran hot and violent with him. "Ehwyn says you're sick, Leglass. Is that why you're crying?" He could not answer her. His rage afforded him no words, no thoughts, no choices. Fethra watched him a moment more before laying her head against his chest once more. "I want you to get better."

Her soft words smashed through the defenses his wrath had erected about his heart, and a flood of despair pushed through to pummel what remained of his composure. The Elf released a shaking breath. Somehow he found the mind and bravery to speak. "I will not get better, Fethra."

The child did not move for what seemed to be the longest time, and her utter stillness made Legolas wonder if he had spoken the words at all. His mind was beginning to drift, and the pain was gnawing at his control. The strength of the medicine was waning. There was little time left. The prince closed his hand tighter about the pendant. "I still have your necklace," he whispered into her hair. "Would you like it back?"

She did not speak her answer, shaking her head vehemently against his chest. Legolas grimaced, his fingers absently squeezing the pendant into his palm until it hurt.  _Why have you done this to me?_  his hurting mind demanded of the forces that were, of the song that wove the thread of his life into the fabric of all things. It seemed that power was intent on ripping him out.  _Why have you given so easily only to take away? Why must you destroy her? What has she done to deserve such cruelty?_

Fethra's small hands balled tightly in the fabric of his shirt. "Your heart's beating, Leglass."

He could bear this no longer. Tightly did his arms come to wrap around the tiny form, this precious gift he had inexplicably found. Tears fell from his eyes, and he sobbed softly as he laid his cheek atop the child's head. Wetness soaked through the breast of his tunic. "You promised me you wouldn't leave me," Fethra whimpered fearfully. Her voice shook with sobs. "You told me Elves can't die! That's what you said, Leglass! You promised!"

"I know I did," the Elf gasped weakly. "I am so sorry."

She pulled away from him, her face torn in fury, in grief. Her big eyes glistened wetly, her flushed cheeks damp. "You promised," she whined. "You promised! You promised!" Her words were slurred with sobs.

He was not strong enough to fight her, though he tightened his grip to keep her struggling form against him. "Please, Fethra," he pleaded, completely unable to stand her upset. "There is nothing for which I wish more than to keep that promise. But I cannot. I cannot!" Statements rushed by his dazed mind, each pushing to make itself heard. Words of sadness, of excuse, of explanation. Words of anger and guilt. Even words of comfort, as palty as they were. But he spoke none of them, the moment fleeting and his resolve wavering. What good would they do now? She could not understand such silly, trite things. She could hardly comprehend that her guardian, the one she had chosen to replace her father, was parting with her forever. She could not know the swell of grief within, the vise of pain and anguish squeezing at his throat…

It was her arms. She had flung herself about him, wrapping her small limbs tightly around his neck. Legolas embraced her dazedly as she screamed and cried her despair. The Elf wished he could be so candid with his own grief, but he had not the strength or will to vent his misery. He loved her, and he would be her comfort even in his own death. "Shh," Legolas whispered softly into her hair. "All  _I_  will know now is happiness, and that should make  _you_  happy. I do not want you to be so sad. Stop, please."

"I'm scared," Fethra whimpered, burying her face into the nape of his neck. "I don't want to be alone, Leglass."

Somehow the calm to speak came to him. His voice was steady and strong. "You are not alone." His hand cupped the back of her head as he pressed his lips to her brow. His love for her was great and pure, and it fought the despair and disease. For this moment, there was peace. "You will never be alone. I will always be with you."

Fethra's gaze held his own, and in the quiet there was a gentle breath of hope as cool and sweet as a summer breeze. It was acceptance, a serene measure of tranquility amidst a raging storm. They would not be parted, not truly. She would remember him. The strange quirk of fate that had brought together the most unlikely of creatures would ensure the union of their spirits far beyond this upsetting moment. That was consoling, somehow. That was enough.

For then the pain came back, and it did so with a fiery passion. The world slammed heavily upon the Elf, viciously ripping from him the moment of peace, yanking from his lungs air to breathe and from his limbs energy to move. Legolas swallowed his scream as best he could, weakly falling back into the bed. Again the frightening nothingness swallowed him, and everything became so distant and dark. He heard shrieking and weeping, pounding footsteps, the door banging open. The agony consumed him, leaving him breathless and helpless to its sadistic, malicious whims.

Grasping fingers released his hair and clothes only after much yanking and cajoling. A small voice cried and cried. "Leglass! Leglass! I want Leglass!" No longer could he place the voice, so complete was the oblivion of the torture put upon him. More footsteps resounded, and the blurry world shifted as he watched a mess of blond and red hair run from him. There was a part of him that yearned to follow, to ease the suffering of the desperate and miserable soul. But the poison afforded him nothing. New hands restrained him; new voices bade him rest and peace. No! He would not have it end like this! He would not! He could not…

She was gone.

The pendant fell from limp fingers, crashing to the floor and soundlessly shattering.

* * *

And in the end, there would be nothing. Nothing but a memory, a hopeless cause, an angry soul forever searching for absolution and understanding that were maybe not its to have. A body, once ageless, beautiful, and strong, made of soft, smooth skin, of powerful muscle, of glowing, blue eyes and of pale, bright hair… a perfect creation laid to waste by a malicious turn of events. It was truly terrible that such degradation had come to pass. This was a body that had loved and been loved, that had fought valiantly alongside friends and family, that had aided in the salvation of its world, that had housed a noble and brilliant soul. In a matter of hours, it would be dead. Once so vibrant and splendorous, once glowing with all the vitality of life… it would all be gone.

The last attacks had weakened Legolas. He had no strength to move now, and he constantly drifted listlessly to and from awareness. The pain had been stubborn in relenting, and he lingered in the grips of agony. In the strength of the hurt, all emotion and sensation fled. There was nothing but a dark, deep abyss, and the descent was truly terrible. The disease stole from his body and his mind, and now his spirit was cracking under its constant press. If he had possessed vigor at all before, it had abandoned him when the battle for his life became a slow defeat. He had submitted himself to his inevitable downfall.

Mere hours had passed, but to the Elf it had been an eternity of infernal destruction as his body was laid to waste. He knew he had dreamt and thought much, but nothing now would come to him. He wondered where he was. He wondered who he was. He wondered at such a death, without honor or pride. Without identity.

Arwen stroked his face compassionately as the fever ravaged him. He lie admist the rumpled sheets of his bed, shivering in chills. None of the medicine did anything to lower his temperature, and cool baths provided little comfort and caused too much strain. Though his senses were extremely dull, Legolas knew his dear friend was losing faith. He observed the dolor in her eyes, the tears that she bravely held from falling. He hated seeing her so lost and hurt. "You need not… do that now," he whispered, his cracked, bloodied lips hardly moving with the motion.

Éowyn stopped cooling his chest with a wet rag and looked up. Briefly the woman's eyes met the gaze of her queen, her exhausted face broken in the last of her hopes. Arwen held tighter to Legolas' hand. "Do not speak. You must save your strength," Arwen admonished gently.

Blue eyes soullessly searched the face over him. Their light had been cruelly stolen. Still, a tiny smile perked Legolas' mouth. A fleeting memory came to him. "Undómiel," he whispered. A flicker of joy passed in the depthless gaze. "Long have I… I looked upon your face. Like a pale star glowing… in a sea of black." Arwen raised his limp hand and pressed its flaccid length to her cheek. "Do… do you remember the times… back in Imladris? Under the night sky… a million shining specks…"

"Legolas," she whispered.

The faint recollection came to him, warm and tender, and he embraced it. In Sindarin he whispered, "You shone brighter than… than them all. And I was entranced by your beauty. Undómiel." Her grasp on his hand become tighter. "Even now you… you are an evening star to me. I am not afraid."

Arwen smiled. "You were never afraid."

There was much more he wished to say, but he could find no words. Perhaps if things had been different… So long ago had he wished for her. She was dear to him when he had fled the cold silence of his own home. She was serene and sweet, never asking for anything other than his affection. But time and his friendship with Aragorn had tempered dreams never meant to be. Perhaps if he had said the words… His mind escaped him. "Long did I wish for naught but your love," he whispered. "But I am happy… happy that you have found your place with Estel."

She understood everything he could not say. And with that, she nodded, the tears finally breaking free from her eyes to roll unbidden down pale cheeks. She pressed her lips to his palm. "You always had my love, my prince, and you always will."

Éowyn watched the exchange silently, her face forlorn. She could not understand their words, but she surely felt the implication of the quiet moment. "My Lord, do not despair," she pleaded. Her blue eyes flashed in desperation, clinging to hope when there was none to be had. "All is not lost."

He turned his empty gaze to Éowyn, watching the emotions play across her face. She could not force her faith upon him any more than she could cure his ailment. "Perhaps Lord Aragorn could bleed the poison from you. Perhaps we could–"

The Elf prince winced weakly at the throbbing in his head. The pain was returning. This would be the last time. He would not fight it. As he gazed at Éowyn's pretty face, he was reminded of the sun striking spring flowers. Her hair glowed golden in the daylight, and the sky shone in her eyes. She belonged among beautiful things, for she was ethereal yet worldly, and in the play of the wind upon her flaxen tresses he saw swaying reeds of yellow grasses.  _I will help her make her garden bloom._  "Tell Faramir… that I am sorry… I will break my promise to him."

Éowyn choked on a sob, dropping her gaze to hide her tears. She was too proud, too stoic to weep openly. Still, the tiny droplets struck his skin as she leaned over him. The softness of her lips as she kissed his brow felt wondrous and pure, too pure for his burning face. Then she leaned back, her slight frame shaking.

Time passed. Inevitably the pain grew, coming stronger and stronger. Lost in the throes of agony once more, he hardly noticed when the two left him. Lips had pressed against his in a chaste kiss. That was his only perception for what felt to him to be a long while. The haze lifted slowly. He was too beaten to cry or to struggle against the crushing grip of the toxin. He merely rode the waves of his anguish as though he floated upon the ocean. The sea.  _I will never know it now._

Later, when a brief instance of lucidity pulled him from his tormented catatonia, he heard soft humming. Weakly he opened his eyes. Now it was Aragorn who was perched beside his bed. The king's face was lax with the burden of too much worry and not enough sleep. His body was bent and his eyes were dead. His hands were clasped about the Elf's. Despite his hurt, seeing Aragorn there offered Legolas a tiny bit of peace. He was ready. It was time.

"Aragorn?"

The man turned slowly, focusing empty eyes upon his ill friend. He ceased his low humming. Ragged and dark was his face with absolute grief and festering anger. "I am here, Legolas," Aragorn said softly. The grip upon the prince's hand grew tighter. "I will not leave you."

Legolas fought to moisten his mouth enough to speak. At first the words would not come, as they had grown lost in the convoluted tangle of his thoughts. Then, when he had managed to parse what he wished to say from the mess, he could not find the courage to say it. Only the desperation of a soul bearing too much pain gave him the strength he needed. "Kill me."

Silence. The words hung in the moment, viciously taunting with their horrid implications. Then Aragorn's eyes widened and he shook his head. The man's form began to quiver. "No, do not ask that of me." His tone was panicked and frightened.

"It hurts…" the Elf whimpered, his voice beginning to fail him. The fear of the pain was becoming stronger than the fear of death. Aragorn watched his friend suffer, his face bitterly creased in worry. "I cannot bear more of it."

"Be strong, Legolas. Fight!"

"It is hopeless."

"No!" Aragorn's eyes filled with furious tears. His words were obstinate, but his normally firm jaw quivered as he spoke them. "These are the hands of a healer, not the hands of a murderer! These hands…" The king looked to his hands, staring at them as if wondering at how they had betrayed him. They had done nothing to save his dearest friend, his brother, a companion to his very soul. Nothing. "Ai, Legolas…" He sobbed. "Please do not force this upon me!"

But Legolas would not be deterred. He forced some measure of confidence to his halting words. "If I am to die, I would – I would rather die by your hand than by this cruel fate! This is an end without dignity, without peace…" The Elf moaned as the pangs of hurt knifed through him again. "Please, Aragorn," he pleaded. "I beg you. You can release me from this. Would you deny me that?" The king looked away, averting eyes that betrayed how very much he did indeed wish for his friend's suffering to simply cease. "In all our long years together… I have never asked much of you. Do me this honor.  _Please._ " The last word was only a raspy whisper. It was all the strength he had left.

Aragorn's shoulders shook. Then he turned suddenly and leaned over Legolas. Their foreheads touched. He said nothing but remained still for the moment as they both drew comfort from each other. So much was left unspoken and undone. So much that now they would never share.

Then the king stood and stepped quickly from the room. Legolas was left alone, and he sagged in his relief. Only a bit longer would this torment last. Only a little while yet would the pain be able to reach him. As if knowing this, the toxin's weapons forced him down again, and nightmare and agony stampeded over his helpless form. He had nothing left with which to fight. Ghoulish apparitions from memory chased him. His brothers. His father. Would they never know what became of him?

Long did he fall. Long were the moments spent in terror and affliction. Then he was released. He gasped, his heart hammering wildly and his breath charging. Eyes snapped open and scanned fruitlessly. There was somebody there. "Gimli?"

A shuffling form approached the bed. "Rest," responded the Dwarf as he laid a palm over Legolas' brow. "Aragorn has gone to fetch stronger medicine. Hold on."

The pain kept him silent. Gimli held tight to his straining hand, whispering gentle assurances as they waited. Through the murk taking his mind, Legolas was warm with gratitude. "Elf-friend," he wheezed. "Now is the time I call you this. I will not have another chance…"

"Do not speak that way!" Gimli chided. "Stay with me. It is not your time. Do you hear me? It is not your time!" The Dwarf nearly collapsed in his grief, whatever hope that had been driving him suddenly depriving him of courage enough to even stand. "You must fight. I cannot live with this grief, Legolas. We cannot part like this!"

The door cracked open, and Gimli's rough voice faded in a barely restrained sob. Aragorn stepped inside on heavy feet. In his hands he carried a bowl, holding it so carefully as though reverent of what its contents would do. Silently he came closer, and, together with the Dwarf, Legolas was lifted slightly from the bed. The Elf moaned his agony, dizziness pounding his head. The cool bowl was tipped to his lips, and he drank slowly the liquid within. It tasted sweet, warming his throat as he swallowed.

When the bowl was empty, Aragorn set it aside. "It is done," he whispered in Elvish.

Legolas' eyes were half-lidded. A relieved sob escaped his lips. He could not help but smile. "Thank you."

Now he need only wait. At first the pain was as sharp as ever, the nightmares prodding at his consciousness as angry and vehement as they had been before. But gradually the draught began to do its work. It was a strange thing to feel it kill his body. A distinct numbness began in his toes and the tips of his fingers. The ache from his wounds lost its sharpness. Indifference took him, and he was glad to release himself to it.

When the agony relinquished its grip upon him, he could think clearly. He could see and make sense of things. He was lying in a bed. His body was strange, different, not his. Aragorn and Gimli watched him, the former sadly and the latter intently. The medicine would work this time. It would.

A cool breeze brushed by them, punctuating the long, arduous silence. Legolas smiled weakly. "Please," he began, "I… I must be outside." There was too much rock everywhere: the ceiling overhead, the floor, the walls. They were gray and forbidding. How they blocked the songs he so loved!

Aragorn seemed hesitant, but then he nodded after a moment's contemplation. There was no point in denying the request. No amount of cold or exposure could harm Legolas now. If he wished to be beneath the blue sky and among the gentle breezes, Aragorn would not deny him this. An Elf should not die in a house of stone.

So the ranger stood and slid his arm under Legolas' knees. The other his wrapped around the Elf's shoulders. He lifted his burden but looked away, as though disgusted by the ruin the disease had done to his friend's once powerful form. Gimli grabbed a fallen blanket, his eyes hard with grief, as the king stepped around the bed and walked outside to the balcony.

Cool air caressed the Elf's numb body. Sunlight streamed over him, warming his heart. The golden rays spread down over the terrace, illustrious and majestic. Aragorn set his legs carefully to the floor, the stone cold to his bare feet. Then the king wrapped his arm around the Elf's waist and supported him as together they looked out over the balcony.

It was beautiful. The sun caught the mountains just so, sending them ablaze in gold and blue. The sky was bright and lovely. Winds that smelled of the ocean wafted up to the balcony, teasing him with tickling fingers, pulling at the Elf's limp, flaxen tresses. It brought to life the sounds of the trees below, of the loose autumn leaves that rustled in the corners of the terrace. The song of the trees burst within him, loud and pure, and he allowed it to wash him away. Everything he loved was before him, around him, inside him. He was alive.  _He was alive._

Legolas released a choked sob and closed his eyes. He could not bear to look anymore. These simple beauties he would never again see or hear or taste or smell or feel. Sorrow welled up within him, sorrow soft and soothing. The violence was gone. The hurt was gone, the despair, the fear. He could feel life ebb and flow within him. So beautiful.

His legs failed him, and he stumbled into Aragorn's arms. The king's embrace was warm and the man smelled of athelas and pipe smoke. Legolas grinned weakly as the man helped him settle down against the outside wall. The prince came to rest with his back pressed to Aragorn's chest. Gimli tentatively sat beside them, the breeze ruffling the mass of his red hair. His cheeks glistened wetly in the sun, like trails of glinting silver, as he sought Legolas' hand. Aragorn drew the blanket over them as they waited for the future to meet them.

Aragorn's hand came to rest over Legolas' heart. The Elf shivered slightly. Everything was growing so cold, so far away. The quiet was serene and unrushed. There was nothing to fear now. Everything came as it did, and there was comfort in that security. The past was done and it could not be changed. Souls sang in unison, enjoying a last moment together. The culmination of many years of loyalty and friendship and love.

Legolas raised his hand to lay it over his friend's. He could almost feel his heartbeat beneath the flesh of Aragorn's fingers. The song had slowed. His body became heavy, his eyes slipping shut. He was not frightened. Suddenly there was no air, but there was no need to breathe. Tears came, but there was no need to cry. Sleep finally embraced him. The pain faded away, parting from his body, and he was free.

 _Come now, my son._  Again the voice resounded as the wind soothed his tired soul. He smiled; so much did its soft, melodic tone sound like his mother.  _Rest. You need suffer no longer. Come and find peace._

His spirit suddenly felt and knew all. Color like nothing he had ever before experienced filled him, and he was away, flying, soaring, escaping. His chest rose. His heart beat. He released a breath, whispering his last song to the trees, to the stars, to the earth. Then he was still. Nothing now would his heart feel. No more would his eyes see. No longer would his voice speak.

A single leaf rustled.

The rest was silence.


	18. In the Wake

**PART TWO**

_What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord,_  
_Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff_  
_That beetles o'er his base into the sea,_  
_And there assume some other horrible form,_  
_Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason_  
_And draw you into madness? Think of it._  
_The very place puts toys of desperation,_  
_Without more motive, into every brain_  
_That looks so many fathoms to the sea_  
_And hears it roar beneath._

—  _William Shakespeare,_ Hamlet _, Act I.4_

Minas Tirith was cold and still this evening. A great shadow had spread over the city as the sun had sunk wearily below the horizon. The sky, normally so vibrant and wondrous at sunset with breath-taking yellows, oranges, and lavenders, was this night gray and solemn. Light faded to a twilight that was chilly and unreal, and the air hung with tense grief and anger. All life wallowed in the coming night, finding no comfort in the promise of the new day. What good could another sunrise do? It could not change what had happened. It could not lift this pall of unspeakable sorrow. Another would make no difference, and this one had simply seen too much.

The stables were dark. They were nestled deep within the sixth gate, and little very light reached inside the covered structure this time of day. This area housed the horses of Gondor's royalty and lords. It was richly crafted, the wooden supports fine and strong, the stalls nicely kept and stuffed with fresh straw. The place was a stately equine palace, the air fresh and warm, the paths clean and swept. The odor of leather and hay was heavy but not unpleasant. Only the best of stable boys and men tended the anjmal, for these horses that bore their lords and ladies could be quite temperamental about their care. Most often the stables were bustling with activity during the day, filled with shouts, running feet, and whickering horses. Now they were empty. Even the animals, normally robust and noisy in private conversation, were withdrawn.

Faramir closed his eyes as he walked. A dull ache had settled behind his brow, and even the dim light of the glowing stoves was too striking and bright. Any other man perhaps might have tripped in confusion while walking so blindly. After all, it was not uncommon for an absent-minded lad to leave a pitchfork propped upon a door or a bucket of water or oats too close to the narrow paths. Also this place was much bigger than most of its kind, filled with winding lanes and a maze of doors and stalls. An ordinary person would have easily lost his bearings without the aid of his sight. But Faramir had lived in Minas Tirith all his life, and many hours had he spent in the stables in his youth. Often he and Boromir had played in the hay when the watchful, chastising eyes of instructors and parents were turned elsewhere. Laughing loudly they had run through these lanes in foolish races, nearly colliding with irate soldiers and hands. He knew well the turns and twists, the sounds and smells, the feel of the dirt floor here and there and all of its potential ruts. He did not need his eyes to navigate.

The steward drew a deep breath. He was so tired. In the days since the disaster at Emyn Nimsîr, he had barely had time to sleep. His body greatly craved a respite. Though he had nearly regained full use of his once wounded shoulder, the old injury still troubled him with soreness. A few times during the dangerous battle in the swamps his arm had nearly failed him. But there was no time to rest, no time to recover. Not now. There was too much to do, too much for which he must fight. There would be time later to sleep. To grieve.

His feet stopped, and he opened his eyes. He had reached his destination. The servant he had luckily encountered and questioned upon entering the stables had been true to his word.

Aragorn was completely still. The shadows shrouded his face from Faramir's gaze, but his gray eyes shone in unshed tears. The steward could feel the waves of anguish his friend exuded, and the air about him was stiff and tense with unbreakable sorrow. The king faced one of the stalls near the rear of the stables. He was silent and cold.

Lightly Faramir stepped closer, but in the deep and dreary emptiness the sound of his feet striking the ground was terribly loud. Hasufel snorted a salutation as he passed, and the great, gray beast shifted in his stall to lean his head towards his master. Absently Faramir paused a moment to run a tired hand down his horse's muzzle. Even Hasufel, so typically arrogant and mindful of only his own desires, was stricken with the chilly darkness clinging to the city. He blinked sympathetic eyes, as if to express condolences, and leaned into Faramir's gentle touch.

Giving the animal one last comforting pat, Faramir drew a deep breath to gather his mettle and continued. Aragorn had not turned at his approach, and the steward distinctly felt as though he was intruding upon some solemn and private moment. In the last few days, he had barely had occasion to speak with his lord. Duty put upon him hefty obligations, and Aragorn's wrath and grief was, according to Éowyn, violent and consuming. Much of the same emotion governed most of Minas Tirith, it seemed, and the city was swept in a storm of restrained rage for what they had lost. Faramir knew this helpless fury well, for it plagued him as much if not more so, denying him what little rest he found, tormenting and twisting his thoughts, staining his soul with shame vile and black. He had been one of the leaders of the attack, after all. He had failed to see through the ruse, and his ignorance, his foolery, had resulted in destruction.

He swallowed the familiar burning in his throat and came to a stop beside his king. If there was little time for mourning, then certainly even less existed for wallowing. He knew that far too much was at stake to be hampered by such strong and unchecked emotions. Over and over again their enemy had proved to be wily and formidable. Faramir was certain that Legolas' fall had been no mistake, that the attack on Emyn Nimsîr had served some greater purpose. So well did these villains understand the workings of Gondor, but even more frightening and disturbing was their manipulation of emotion. Blind rage and sudden action were the natural responses to the loss of a lord, hero, and friend, and Faramir could not deny the wailing of his suspicious mind. They intended for Gondor to retaliate, and to do so quickly. The thought bothered him to no end, for the city screamed for revenge. Aragorn was slipping into despair and ire, desperate to make right this horrid wrong. Would the king deny the vengeful cries of his people, of his lords, of his friends, of his own heart?

Aragorn finally noticed him, and he sighed. The breath quivered with a stifled sob. Faramir watched his friend struggle with the weight of his grief, and in doing so the steward suffered anew the familiar plight of rage and sorrow.  _Legolas… Why?_

They stood in an oppressive silence for a long time, the king and his lord, for neither could even begin to amend the terrible wrong done to them. The misery was left to fester like an open wound, bleeding and swollen with unshed tears, unspoken apologies, and unwanted responsibilities. Then Aragorn suddenly moved, taking a tentative step closer to the stall.

Arod veritably glowed despite the hanging shadows. He knew what had happened, but he stood tall and proud and statuesque. Like the Elf he loved, the animal shone brightly in even the darkest of hours.  _Had loved._  Faramir's breath hitched in his throat.  _Do not think of it!_

Large black eyes stared at Aragorn, piercing, questioning. Once, many years ago, Faramir had been told that he mastered both man and beast. He had never much believed in that rubbish; he was an ordinary man, a second son, a simple warrior. Still, despite his humility, he had come to have some faith in the assertion. The tame and mild horses of Gondor were little like the fiery, complex animals of Rohan, however, and he had learned his inadequacy quickly when he had come into possession of Hasufel. Éowyn had often told him that the Rohirrim bred their mounts to display such a vibrant power, such an ardent will. Many days had he spent in the company of these magnificent horses, but still he felt terribly ignorant of their minds and pathetically ill-equipped in commanding them.

And Arod, he found, was more difficult to read than most.

Emotion flickered in those depthless orbs. Arod answered to only his master, as Faramir had come to learn, for he was a skittish beast whose devotion was fierce and undeniable. The white horse watched Aragorn as the king reached forth a hand, trepidation and mistrust clear in his tense form. Arod was perceptive, uncannily so. Legolas had once explained on a scouting trip that Arod was more an Elvish horse at heart, as steeds bred by the Elves tended to sense and understand more than a simple horse could. But Arod was much more than that. He was wise and ageless, valiant and quiet. Faramir knew without a doubt that those characteristics had drawn Legolas to him. He was also certain that Arod knew now his master was gone.

Arod snorted and stepped about his stall, pulling upon the halter rope that tethered him to the gate. It was as if the horse could sense Aragorn's guilt, though Faramir imagined that was not so difficult a feat. The king wore his shame and rage plainly for all to see, and Arod recoiled from his hand as though the fingers were coated in blood. The white stallion whickered his dismay, snorting and pawing at the hay in his stall desperately. Hurt passed over Aragorn's face. Silence followed, and somehow this silly moment became paramount to their recovery, to their very sanity. It was as if the forgiveness of a horse would sway what was to come. It would change the course of a war and shift the strength of men. The minute lingered, creating a treacherous rift between hope and despair, between what remained of their future and what could never be changed of their past.

Then Arod relented. Perhaps the desire for comfort was simply too strong, beating down whatever resentment and hatred he held for Aragorn. He visibly relaxed, bowing his head in submission and breathing softly. Aragorn as well sagged in relief. Apology had been offered and absolution returned. The king stepped inside Arod's stall slowly and cautiously, his eyes never leaving those of the horse. But it seemed to Faramir that Arod would fight no longer. His master had fallen in battle. Such a fact could not be denied.

Aragorn sighed softly as his hand touched Arod's muzzle. The horse was hesitant at first at the caress as though the gesture of solace was unwanted or uncomfortable, but he calmed in a matter of seconds. The king's gentle fingers stroked the horse's neck slowly, and Aragorn leaned weakly into the animal's chest. A few whispered Elvish words left the king's lips, but Faramir could not understand them. The shadows receded for this moment of comfort, and Faramir felt something inside him begin to throb anew.

"How could this have happened?" Aragorn's words were so soft that for a moment the steward doubted his lord had spoken at all. Tiredly Aragorn's shoulders slumped, his hands stroking the length of Arod's side. "How could we have let this happen?"

Heat claimed Faramir's body as he stood there. Aragorn's tone had shaken with the violence of his anguish, and that quivering had nearly taken Faramir's hapless heart as well. How desperately he wished to understand, to offer his king and friend some semblance of relief with an answer. All through his life he had prided himself on his ability to reason, for his mind was sharp and apt in observation and understanding. Now, however, his intelligence afforded him naught but frustration and fury. No amount of logic could unravel the grotesque and elusive truth behind the violence they had suffered, behind their loss.

Any words seemed trite and shallow, so he said nothing, standing perfectly still. Aragorn abruptly turned and slammed his fist into the side of the stall. Arod's ears flattened and he snorted, stepping around restlessly. Aragorn's other hand slammed against the wood with bang, and the king fell against it with a choked sob. For a long moment he knelt there, braced against the old planks, his shoulders shaking. An awkward hurt stabbed into Faramir. "I cannot do this," Aragorn whispered in a clenched tone. "Ai, I cannot bear this! He has been at my side for so long… For so long have I had his voice offering advice and encouragement. Now… this damning silence…"

Faramir swallowed the lump in his throat and lowered his eyes. It felt terribly wrong to stand so quietly and witness Aragorn's despair, but he could think of no way to act and of no words to speak. He had come to the stables to tell Aragorn that the lords had assembled for the evening's council. But that seemed inappropriate, though duty dictated otherwise. He stood still and watched and listened, feeling the guilty wretch. Though he considered himself Aragorn's close friend, a weak moment such as this he had never before witnessed. These were the sorts of intimate instances that the king often shared with his queen, or with Legolas or Gimli. He deemed himself rather poorly stationed to aid Aragorn in assuaging his misery.

Eventually Aragorn's rushed breath grew softer and slower, and his tense form slumped slightly as the iron drive of his rage left it. He straightened, gathering what he could of his confidence. A grieving brother was replaced by the stoic leader.

To Arod the man offered a final gentle pat. If horses could look such a thing, Faramir thought Arod's expression sad and lonely. Then Aragorn turned. His face was grim and tense as he stepped from the stall. The steward and the king met each other's gaze. Aragorn reached forward and grasped Faramir's shoulder firmly. "I cannot lose you as well," whispered the king. After that, he turned and, with all that remained of his power and pride in his stride, walked away.

* * *

The meeting commenced not long after that. Gathered once more around the great table were the Lords of Gondor. Solemn were their faces and heavy were their hearts. Many seats customarily filled were now empty. Voices that often spoke in advice and wisdom were silent. It was disturbing to say the least. The last rays of a dying sun bled into the palatial hall. Through the open balconies a cold evening breeze came, whispering a soft lament that no one cared to hear. The pain was too close. The grief was too near. The black banners hung limply, and the White Tree seemed to sag upon them with the weight of war.

Faramir lifted tired eyes. The quiet loomed over them like a terrible monster seeking to devour whatever courage and strength that survived. The steward feared that it might. Each man present radiated such fierce frustration, such hate. So much had been lost and he feared the fighting was far from over.

Gimli tensed beside him. Faramir turned slightly to look upon his stout friend and found his heart again straining. For days Gimli had done naught but demand swift action. Waiting, in the Dwarf's vocal opinion, was only betraying Legolas. Faramir had wished to agree, for his own heart desired nothing other than what Gimli proposed, but he knew they could not be so hasty. Aragorn's own foul mood of late had resulted in a few clashes between the two. Faramir knew little of the trio's friendship, but a few times in the past he had heard Gimli and Legolas mention their flight across the plains of Rohan during the War of the Ring. The bond the man, the Elf, and the Dwarf had formed during their perilous ventures had persevered for years, strong in mutual love and devotion. Now, without Legolas, the comfortable affection they had shared became a violent struggle for absolution and understanding, for a way to make this somehow right.

Faramir could stand the sight of Gimli's tormented face no longer, so he sighed and looked down again. There was no typical murmur of hushed conversation. He supposed the others were as distracted as he by the empty seats about the council table. Legolas' chair, of course, was painfully vacant. Absent as well was Imrahil. It had been more than a week since the Prince of Dol Amroth had departed for his manor, and the lord would supposedly return on the morrow with as many troops as he could spare. He had not heard anything further of Imrahil's wife, but he prayed the lady was well. Imrahil would need all his strength to aid Gondor in her struggle.

Éomer had returned to them, at least, and Faramir was glad for it. The young King of Rohan now sat at Aragorn's left, and though his face was a bit haggard, his eyes were bright with vigor. Éowyn had spent many hours at her brother's side these days past, personally aiding him in his recovery from his wound. The injury he had received at Emyn Nimsîr was not mortally dangerous, but it had been serious and slow to heal. Éomer had been stabbed with a spear through the shoulder when he had been thrown from a wounded Firefoot. Both the horse and the rider had been pulled to safety by loyal and daring Rohirrim, and neither would be permanently impaired. It was a stroke of luck in an otherwise disastrous chain of events.

Other seats were empty. Many of the lords and leaders had left Minas Tirith on orders to reinforce their own cities and establishments. Faramir had once hoped that this table would forever be one of peace. So long had Gondor choked and writhed in the grip of Mordor's poisonous and ambitious hands. In the black plume of terrible evil reaching from Mount Doom, all light had faded and the glory of Gondor had sunken into a mire of despair and desolation. Faramir hated what war had done to his family. It had twisted his noble father into a bent and bitter ruler with no hope of salvation. It had taken his brother. It had ravaged his home. When the heir of Isildur had been returned to the throne, Faramir had allowed himself a long sigh of relief and a spark of hope. Sunlight had pierced the gloom of Mordor's putrid smoke, and for the first time in many years, the White City had glowed with pride and power. Without the press of war, men came alive again, prospering and flourishing. It had seemed in the face of such bright days that peace had finally come to Gondor. The future had been wonderful and certain.

Given all he had seen, he should have been less naïve.

Aragorn sat stiffly. He darted venomous eyes about the table, but few had the audacity or courage to meet his glare. There were no pleasantries, no formalities, no smiles or friendly whispers or knowing nods. Death afforded them no such gaiety. "We have little time," Aragorn began coolly, as though he blamed each present for the disastrous course of things, "and even fewer options. Our enemy lays hidden, waiting for the exact moment to strike us. I will  _not_  have another town destroyed, another village ravaged, another soul lost. I want answers, and I will have them now."

The table was silent at first. Darting eyes met, sharing brief looks of fear and doubt. Then Irehadde grunted and turned away. "There are no answers, my Lord. I spoke just minutes ago with Holis, and he could tell me nothing. Nothing that we do not already know." The Dúnadan sighed, greatly irritated. "They honor no treaties, no code of military conduct. They attack ruthlessly and without warning. At every turn they have anticipated, calculated, and countered. The Emperor can tell us nothing of their size–"

"Rubbish," growled Gimli. The Dwarf scowled angrily, his eyes dark and distant. "They cannot possibly boast much more. Though we lost Emyn Nimsîr, we struck a hard blow upon them. Surely a force grander than what we have encountered could not be so silent or so quick. How could an army of great size escape our knowledge? Gondor's intelligence is not so faulty, I hope!"

Faramir shook his head slowly as he considered Gimli's words. "It is not," he murmured. The Dwarf certainly spoke with logic despite his frustration. He believed it to be rather unlikely the Easterlings could yet be numerous. Many had died at Emyn Nimsîr. Their enemy's victory had come to them at great price. Rebel forces were typically a vocal minority, a splinter political group driven to violence by insatiable ambition or perceived injustices. He was relatively certain that they made use of such cowardly but strategic tactics because they stood no chance against Gondor's army, which boasted thousands. It was the only explanation that offered any sense. "I must agree with Gimli," he finally volunteered, breaking from his reverie. "Many of their men died at Emyn Nimsîr. I cannot fathom that more await us in the shadows. We have already seen the bulk of their forces."

"Then let us act!" barked Irehadde. The man flashed raging eyes to Faramir. The steward's temper boiled at the man's less than courteous glare. He knew not what he had done to foster such distemper between them, but with the passing of each day's worth of insults, he was beginning to not care. If Irehadde believed himself to be a better steward to the king than he, that was certainly his right. But thought and act were assuredly two very different prospects, and Irehadde was far too prejudiced and crude to support his claims. "Enough speculation, my Lord. There is not the time to sit and wonder and guess and question! We are no nation of weaklings or cowards. This is no country of beggars and dullards! They have played us for fools. They have maimed and murdered, raped and plundered! We can stand for this no longer!"

Aragorn's tone was cold and his face was tight and hurt. "I will not randomly make war. We invite only death and defeat with such reckless and thoughtless intentions." Irehadde immediately dropped his eyes and leaned back in his chair, stewing thankfully in silence.

Éomer shook his head, his eyes dark and worried. "Fate is cold to us these days. There must be  _something_ , a clue, a hint of their camps or their movements. Without information, we will strike blindly into the shadows. Too much has been lost to afford another foolish venture." Once more did Faramir's lungs clench ever so slightly as he watched the shame, grief, and fury swirl in his brother-in-law's hazel gaze. The young king had not taken the news of Legolas' loss well. By the time Éomer had regained consciousness from his own wounds, it been too late to do anything but simply reveal to him the terrible fact that the Elf had fallen. More striking was Éomer's pain, for he above any was responsible for that ill-fated defense. Although Faramir valued all life as precious and beautiful, the thought of the demise of an immortal was all that much more crushing, and the steward knew that Éomer felt this keenly. It was not a pain to which one became easily accustomed, and the young king was struggling with it as plainly as any of them. "Surely the Emperor could offer  _some_  information. The next battle will be decisive; I know it. They will strike us if we do not strike them first, and we  _must_  if we intend to win this war."

"Aye!" rumbled Gimli. "Listen to him! We must wage our battle."

Aragorn sighed softly. The balls of his hands he pressed to his eyes tiredly, and his face broke in exhaustion and grief that had become frighteningly characteristic of late. "None of you tell me things I do not already understand," he said, but his voice was without heat or criticism. "I know these things in the very depths of my heart. They will take advantage of our delay. If they have reinforcements, they will build their strength in the days we foolishly give them. If they intend to attack, they will finalize plans and perfect strategies in the moments we delay. We must make our move now, when we at least know we hold an advantage in size. I want options. I want ideas."

They were silent for a long time. Tired minds struggled to comprehend a convoluted situation, but the fog of doubt and fear left reason and logic as poor instruments. They were still trapped in this terrible fog where each potential path led to an uncertain and potentially perilous outcome, only now it was made worse by a driving need for vengeance. Faramir's thoughts were winding and endless, but for all his want he could not form a cohesive strategy. He lifted his eyes and settled them begrudgingly on Irehadde. "And the Emperor knew naught of their location?" It was a silly question; their inability to gather dependable intelligence had been verified numerous times before. Still, perhaps something had been missed.

For once, the man seemed cool and restrained. "Nay," he responded glumly. "The Easterlings reportedly discovered their spies and had them put to death. Only one escaped, and Holis' men have been unable to infiltrate the ranks since that time."

Silence. The question itched in Faramir's throat. Much had been said in days past of this topic, but there was little information to be had. He had to imagine, despite his dislike of the Dúnadan, that Irehadde would not be so cruel or callous to deny news of matter if he had come to possess it. "And of the prisoners?"

Again, a hungry emptiness took the moment, and Irehadde only shook his head sadly. At Emyn Nimsîr, at least fifty men between had been taken captive, or so they believed. This count was based solely on the reports of witnesses, for the retreat had been too hasty and panicked for an accurate body count to be taken. Among those missing for certain was Ulpheth, and Holis had been quite saddened at the report. Most of the rest were of the Haradrim, but a few of Gondor's officers had disappeared as well. Of whether they had been left dead on the battlefield or not, none could be certain. Perhaps hope remained in their safety, in their continued life, and Faramir wanted to cling to that iota of faith. Yet he could not get the image of the dying, bleeding and broken in the grass, from his mind. Hope! What a terrible, cruel thing. What hope could there possibly be?

"Monsters," fumed Gimli. His voice was vicious and seething, his eyes venomous, his face dark and malevolent. "They will torture those they have taken. If not for information then for sport." Aragorn flinched. "What sort of peace can come to those unfortunate souls? To those left on the battlefield? To those  _killed_? Aragorn, for Legolas' sake, we must take our vengeance!" The Dwarf flashed a glare about the table, as if daring those present to contest his declaration. No one had to courage to so much as meet his violent gaze. Suddenly Gimli's face broke, as if in epiphany. His tone softened immediately. "Refugees still come from Emyn Arnen, yes?"

Faramir cocked an eyebrow, perplexed by the sudden change in the Dwarf's demeanor. "Yes," he answered, "though the bulk of the people have arrived in Minas Tirith already. A garrison of soldiers remains in the manor with the final group. I believe they are to come on the morrow." The refugees from Ithilien and the surrounding areas had been traveling to the White City in small groups with an escort of soldiers since the order to withdraw had been made. They were too easy a target otherwise.

Gimli's blank expression slowly hardened, and his eyes gained an excited edge. "Perhaps we ought to delay their departure," he suggested. The steward was surprised at the sly note in his stout friend's voice. All eyes turned to the Dwarf in anxious confusion. "Aragorn, if we cannot strike them in their lair, we can lure them to us."

The proposition was at first met with a tenuous silence. Aragorn's sorrowful eyes narrowed with interest and a glint of furious hope. "What do you suggest, Master Dwarf?" he asked evenly.

Gimli proceeded to explain, and as he did, his words came faster and faster with pride and excitement. Faramir listened, though he did not know why he bothered. The minute his friend spoke the first sentence, he guessed the outcome. And he was not sure what he thought of it. "We simply use their craven tactics against them. The refugees are slow in traveling, and they will bear with them women and children. If we strip from them the protection of your men, Faramir, then they will be an easy and open target."

The comment was at first met with silence. Then Éomer leaned forward with a bit of a grimace. "You propose to use the people of Emyn Arnen as bait?" he inquired somewhat incredulously.

Gimli turned to him. "Think of it, Éomer! It would be a lure they would not be able to resist, the vile demons! Too long have they tricked and trapped us. It is high time we do the same to them, and strike them hard in their floundering. To them it will appear an easy massacre. However, if we can surreptitiously trail the train of refugees with soldiers, we can catch them in the act and take them easily. We have companies of rangers at our disposal; maintaining a distant yet careful eye on the civilians is conceivable."

The logic was undeniable, if not a bit disgusting. Faramir said, "I do not like the idea of manipulating innocents as such. We would not be able to assure them of their safety, and there would be no guarantee that the Easterlings would attack at all–"

"There is hardly a better option!" Gimli roared. Obviously his frayed temper, rattled nerves, and unending grief allotted him little in the way of control or perspective.

Aragorn's voice was surprisingly soothing, as if the thought of any plan at all had given him great ease. "Peace, son of Glóin. I am sure Faramir met no insult with his concerns, and certainly they are valid issues. Still, the idea has much merit."

"The citizens of Gondor should be willing to aid in their kingdom's defense efforts," Irehadde declared proudly. Dark eyes glowed in muted excitement. "Should we ask–"

"We cannot ask that of them!" exclaimed Faramir angrily. His hands slapped onto the table and he rose from his chair. "We cannot place them in such mortal danger! These are  _people_ , not cattle that we can simply herd to the slaughter as we see fit!"

Irehadde rose as well, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. "I realize they are  _your_  people, Lord Faramir, but they are citizens of this nation and as such they have an obligation to aid in its protection and to obey their king!"

"Enough!" yelled Aragorn. Flashing gray eyes glanced between the two arguing men, and the harsh command was enough to silence them. Faramir held his breath, swallowing his contempt. His body remained stiff with his anger, but the shame was beginning to irk him. Normally he could control his temper, but the combination of his exhaustion, his grief, and Irehadde's condescension made his calm difficult to maintain.

Irehadde's nostrils flared, but he only grunted and looked away from Faramir. The awkward silence continued for a moment more before Faramir sank tiredly into his chair. Ashamed, he could not look at Aragorn. Inside him there was a battle between duty and honor, between right and wrong. He counted himself a man that held to his principles, who maintained pride and dignity. Even if he had not been the favored son, he was now a lord and a leader. And he could not, with any shred of self-respect, allow his people to be manipulated. They trusted him to guide and protect them and their interests. They gave to him their allegiance, and such a precious gift was not to be taken lightly. He would not break his vow to honor their pledge of loyalty. Thus no other option was afforded him, and though the words burned in his throat, he would not hold them back. "If this is the will of the council," he said softly, "then I shall be bait with them."

Aragorn grimaced again. A quiet moment followed, for the soft announcement hung on the still air in all of its terrible implications. Then Éomer found the courage to speak. "No, Faramir," the young man murmured, shaking his head. He appeared absolutely aghast with the idea. "That is far too dangerous!"

However, the steward was adamant. "I will not send my people into peril and cower in the shadows. If they are to face the enemy, then I will join them. You would do the same."

Éomer's eyes narrowed at his brother's comment, for it was true enough. His face fell and he looked down, the weight of leadership clearly pressing upon his good intentions and noble ambitions. "I would," he whispered, the whiteness of his face somehow distressing. Éomer had a boyish handsomeness, a certain innocence that many found endearing. It made Faramir's spirit ache to see him torn with so many grievances, so many burdens, the sort that should have never come to steal youth. They had lost Legolas because of his choices on the battlefield. That was not something with which he could ever come to peace. "I would."

"Then you understand," Faramir said. "You know this. What better lure is there than the Steward of Gondor?" His words came quickly with his excitement, the logic racing about his mind like lightning. "They would not pass up such an opportunity."

Aragorn shook his head, his once tense and dark face now frightened and hesitant. "Faramir, please, this is madness. For such a plan to work, the army would be forced to keep its distance. You would be left unprotected."

But the steward would not be dissuaded. He leaned closer to the king, his eyes blazing and his heart thundering. "You know I speak the truth, Aragorn. The attack on Emyn Nimsîr was no accident. It was no act of senseless violence or pointless arrogance. They meant to bring Legolas down. You  _know_." Aragorn averted fiery eyes, his breath short and hot with his grief. Of course he understood. And Faramir could see his friend's deep guilt over their foolishness in allowing the campaign, over their inability to predict and prevent. But he also saw desperation and fear.  _"I cannot lose you as well."_  He had to say more. He had to assure Aragorn that this was their best option, for he did indeed feel such conviction in the depths of his soul. It was dangerous and grim and terrifying, but it was painfully and undeniably right. "They came for Legolas," whispered the steward. Aragorn looked up, his face bathed in the dying rays of sun, in ghostly shadow and golden light. Faramir's eyes were bright with purpose. It all made such striking sense to him. "They came for him, Aragorn, and they took him from us. Given the chance, they will come for me as well."

The stoic and strong king was gone once more. In his place was a yearning soul searching for absolution, for an end to this. "Are you certain?"

Faramir nodded. "Yes," he said strongly, "but they will fail."

"Aye." Gimli looked between the two men as they turned to face him. He was alive with the thought of answers and vengeance, of victory. "Prince Imrahil will return with hundreds of fresh troops. If the Lord Steward's rangers and Dol Amroth's reinforcements trail the refugees but remain hidden, they will easily fall into our trap. We will crush them. Now is our time, Aragorn. Let us take it!" The king and the Dwarf held each other's gazes for a moment, and Faramir felt their tenuous truce as though it were a tangible thing. Only in action could their two souls find healing.

Éomer nodded his assent. "The Riders of Rohan are as always under your command, Aragorn. We will  _not_  lose this battle. My men are eager to strike back after Emyn Nimsîr, and we will never allow another of Gondor's lords to fall. We are prepared to do whatever it takes to win this war."

Even Irehadde was supportive. The Dúnadan's eyes were narrowed in thought. "Yes, my King. If our forces maintain sufficient distance, a veil of secrecy will shroud our very presence. I shall spread the word about Minas Tirith that Lord Faramir rides to Emyn Arnen to escort what remains of his people and whatever…  _spies_  remain in the city will certainly deliver the news to their commanders. Arrogantly and quickly will they act. Their deaths will be their reward."

"And the Southrons?" asked Aragorn.

"I shall ask Emperor Holis his opinion on the matter. Should he digress, I believe we ought to plan this trap without him. However, I imagine he will be most agreeable. The loss of his men has struck him hard, my King." What Irehadde left unsaid was clear enough to all present: the Southrons would retaliate for the crimes done against their nation by these dissidents, and they would do so violently. The thought of so much more bloodshed turned Faramir's stomach, but he merely clenched his jaw and calmed the rushed and erratic beat of his heart.

The suggestions appealed to Aragorn. Whatever rage and doubt that had before hampered him was gone, and he spoke clearly and with renewed purpose. "Make all the necessary preparations. Send out messengers to greet Lord Imrahil and advise him of the situation. Speak nothing of the true plan at this time to his company; I fear we cannot be certain who we can trust. We must move quickly. Only the most skilled of the soldiers will join the war party. We must minimize the threat to the innocents involved. The very best, do you understand?"

A flurry of curt nods followed. Excitement crackled in the air, breaking the pall of despair. "And what of you, my King? What will you do?" asked Irehadde.

Aragorn opened his mouth to respond, but then thought better of his answer and did not speak. Faramir saw one of the king's advisors, who had remained frightfully silent throughout the assembly, settle Aragorn with a mindful stare. A brief look of frustrated and indignant anger claimed Aragorn, but eventually he only sighed and accepted the facts. "I… will remain behind," the king declared. Faramir truly did feel for Aragorn; this silly law had effectively bound his hands. "There are matters of formality and diplomacy with which I must contend."

Faramir stiffened at the mention of the treatise. He was aware of Holis' proposition and frankly he did not care for it. In the wake of Emyn Nimsîr, the panicked rush of work had provided him with little time to discuss this "treaty" with Aragorn. Too much had happened to allow for clear thoughts on any important matter, and though Faramir had great admiration and confidence in his king, he was afraid Aragorn might be swayed by his emotions and too quickly make choices he might later come to regret.  _There is a fine mindset,_  his conscience growled at him.  _What would you say to him, given the chance? Your mood is foul and your thoughts are dark! Are those reasons enough to dissuade a nation from what could be a peaceful resolution?_  He could not compound Aragorn's dilemma with such groundless concerns. He was not even sure what about this treaty bothered him. Perhaps it was lingering distrust for the Southrons, though they had certainly proved their truthfulness at Emyn Nimsîr. Perhaps it was simply a combination of common sense and experience. Agreements formed amidst war rarely lasted, and they were often made to be broken. Still, were such misgivings reason enough to encourage delay? He suspected Aragorn would not act rashly, but he could no longer be sure.

With Legolas was gone, Aragorn was not who he had been.

Éomer was speaking, and Faramir focused his attention upon his brother. "What of the Elves, Aragorn?" The question was laden with grief and shame. It was a topic no one wanted to address, and no one had until that moment. "Can we count upon their aid? Certainly they would be a boon to us now."

Aragorn sighed softly. "I have spoken with Valandil, an Elf of Imladris with whom Legolas shared confidence. He has already pledged the loyalty of the colony to Gondor." The king stood tiredly, as though the conversation had abruptly turned to his dislike. Faramir imagined it surely had. "I received word from the North. Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond Peredhil, ride south. I will ask them to…" The king's words failed him, and his eyes misted. Yet he managed to regain himself enough to finish his thought. He drew a deep breath to steady his voice before continuing. "I will ask them to assume command when they arrive."

 _Assume command._  The words were wretched in their finality, and Faramir felt again the terrible swell of his grief. The room grew silent. Desperate were their hearts, desperate and dying to change the truth of the matter. Though it was completely irrational, Faramir felt that allowing other Elves to lead Legolas' forces was the lowest and most heinous betrayal possible. Logic dictated otherwise. The Elves of Ithilien were powerful and invaluable. With Legolas gone, Faramir knew they suffered. The sons of Elrond, great lords and leaders themselves, would ease their grief and guilt. And yet…  _I cannot accept this! I will not!_

No more was said. Aragorn turned, the emptiness clearly ailing him, and stiffly departed their company. Faramir knew what poisoned the moment, what tormented minds and pierced hearts with delirious anguish. Winning this battle… winning this war… It mattered little, for the damage had already and irreparably been done.

* * *

Faramir found his wife in bed when he finally returned to their chambers. On light feet he stepped inside their blackened room, closing the door softly behind him and securing it. Then he stood still a moment. The night swelled around him, promising rest to a weary and aching body, whispering an ideal peace for a mind drowning in too many concerns and too much turmoil. It would be an empty offer, he knew. Though he was weary and his wound was troubling him, he was far too alert to sleep easily. The plans he had recently discussed with Éomer and Valandil were fresh to his thoughts, and he was unable to divert his attention from them. The conversation had been tense with unspoken worries. Their hearts were eager in this venture, but Faramir had silently held reservations he doubted the others shared. They were too steeped in guilt and rage to consider the danger of the situation they faced. So much could go wrong. So much was beyond their control. Despite this, Éomer and Valandil spoke confidently of supplies and soldiers, of skill and strength. Though he had hid it well, the young Elf from Rivendell had been stricken with grief and anger, fervently agreeing with whatever his comrades suggested as though easy compliance might make swifter their revenge. And Éomer had expressed the same willingness to act, the same hasty fury, when the two men had shared a few brief words after.  _"I cannot live with this guilt, Faramir. I cannot let this go!"_

None of them could.

Moonlight streamed through the open window, shedding an ethereal light upon the bed. Éowyn's hair spread over the pillows like strands of the finest gold. As he gazed upon his wife, peace finally came to him, enough at least to quiet his raging thoughts. She often had this effect on him, and he was unbelievably grateful for it. Though he had lost many things in his life, he had gained so much more through her. Cool and clear as a calmly falling spring rain, she was a balm to tired muscles and a fatigued spirit. She was a gift to him, and he loved her more than he could ever find the words to express. Rarely in his life had he felt anything so strongly, so deeply. Even more wonderful than this, though, was the reciprocity he had come to cherish. He knew he had awoken life in her once defeated spirit. He had saved her, just as she had saved him. They were not the sort to openly display their affections. Both of them had been taught to hide emotion and maintain decorum because that was what was expected of people in their station during such dark times. In private, though, the depth of their love was apparent and profound. Few words were ever shared of it as neither of them cared for silly and romantic frivolities. Faramir had come to learn that there were many times in life when words were just unneeded distraction.

Realizing he was still standing dumbly next to the door, he gave a small smile before stepping further into their chamber. Absently he pulled his feet from his boots, his fingers fumbling with the ties of his jerkin and then his tunic. The thought of Éowyn's warm body and the cool sheets against his skin was terribly alluring, and he changed quickly into a loose pair of breeches. With a satisfied sigh he slid into the bed and gathered his wife into his arms.

Éowyn had obviously only been lightly dozing. Her bright blue eyes opened slightly as she settled against his bare chest. The faintest of smiles graced her lips as his hands stroked her hair. Faramir breathed deeply, closing his eyes and sinking into the bed. She smelled of rain and herbs; she had spent long hours of late in the Houses of Healing. She felt delicate in his embrace, her skin smooth, soft, and pale, her body lithe and slender. He wondered not for the first time how he had come to be so fortunate.

The beat of her heart against his was beginning to lull him into sleep. Gone were the incessant despairs and doubts, and Faramir welcomed the familiar contentment beckoning him. For the moment he could forget. He could forget his king and the dark threat of his grief and anger. He could forget about the war still looming savagely before his frightened nation. He could forget this ridiculous plot he had concocted. And he could forget about Legolas, about how he had suffered and how they had done nothing to save him.

He could forget, but he did not. Vaguely he wondered if he should tell her of what they had planned, of the peril that was to come. But he decided against it. He had no wish to frighten her.

"I told her he was never coming back today."

The whisper was so soft that for a moment he believed the words to be the call of the breeze or a figment of a dream. But he felt Éowyn shift ever so slightly against him, nuzzling into his neck for comfort. He opened his eyes. "I had feared that she would not understand, but she did. I could see it in her eyes long before I even spoke the words." Faramir felt his wife's sorrow, the strength of it caressing to life his own misery again. "She understands death too well."

Éowyn said no more. War destroyed without regard to race or creed. Still, it always seemed to strike children the hardest. It was a cruel thing to force upon a young mind the fact of loss and suffering. Whatever innocence Fethra had once held was obviously gone, stolen first by her parents' deaths and now Legolas' loss. In the child Éowyn saw herself, sympathizing with the pain she experienced when her own parents died. It was a hurt with which many were familiar, including Faramir himself. To this very day he remembered the fierce anger and grief he had known at his mother's decline. Her slow death had turned his father mad with despair. The steward swallowed the lump in his throat. So many had lost loved ones. Youth was a precious gift these days that was far too easily spent.

"You can do no more for her than what you are," Faramir finally said, his voice muffled as he pressed his lips to the crown of her head. "Harder would have been her fall if she clung to hope."

She did not answer him immediately. The logic was cruel and cold, and Faramir nearly regretted the words. Éowyn then sighed softly and laid a slender, cool hand over his heart. "Days ago she asked me to take her to see him, as if I… as though I could somehow bring him back to her." Her voice shook with restrained grief. She was silent, and minutes passed during which Faramir felt the wretch for his inability to ease her pain. "Days ago she thought the last things he had said to her were true. She told me he promised to never leave her. How could he offer something like that?"

Faramir's lips moved of their own accord. "He could not have known," he surmised.

Whether she was satisfied with his response or not he could not tell. "Lady Ioreth has cared for Fethra better than I have. The girl flourishes in her presence. She will be well there." Somehow those words added finality to the topic. It would mean little if Gondor fell in this war, but for now the child was safe in the Houses of Healing with a new family full of love. Thinking of her growing up in such a compassionate environment pleased him. Perhaps, one day when Fethra was older and all of this was only a distant and hazy nightmare, she would not remember the torment done to her in her childhood. Blessed ignorance would be small compensation for Fethra's loss, but it was a consolation at least to imagine it.

The dance of her fingers against his skin tickled him. She trailed her touch to his shoulder where the red welt of his old injury was beginning to scar. The new flesh was tender and warm. She rested her hand over it and Faramir drew a deep breath. "He did so much for all of us. For you. For me. I feel like we are traitors to that. I feel we are doing nothing for him." He knew she felt her inability to do more for the girl was akin to betraying Legolas' trust. That was not the case, but he could find no words to comfort her. There was so much guilt, and it spread over them all. Éowyn and Éomer. Gimli. Aragorn. They had  _all_  let Legolas go.

The wind whispered its mournful song. Faramir closed his eyes again as he struggled to reconcile the wants of his heart and his mind. Once more the pains of the day came to him, demanding attention. The plan pounded into him with a cruel intensity, and suddenly he could not stand to keep it silent. If nothing else, speaking would release him from the burden of secrecy. "We ride tomorrow." His voice was booming and vulgar in the quiet. "We will meet the refugees from Emyn Arnen and lure the enemy into battle."

His will faltered, and he said no more. Desperately he waited, focusing all his senses upon his wife's form in his arms, his own body tense and yearning. He wondered if she would understand, if she could accept his duty. The thought of her upset was more torturous than he had envisioned, and he momentarily regretted speaking at all. The silence grew more and more uncomfortable, prolonging his disquiet. But his wife was wiser than for which most gave her credit. She asked no questions and demanded no answers. She did not plead or become cross. As he told her his decision, she gave to him her own. "I will come with you."

There was no doubt, no hesitation. He supposed he expected no less of her. She was strong and powerful, and those concerned were as much her people as they were his. She was far too valiant to allow others to face such danger while she remained safely hidden. Never had Éowyn cared for the restraint placed upon her by ladyship; many times had she tested its limits in the past, most recently when she had fought with her kin at Pelennor Fields. Faramir had great faith in her.

He had seen the brutality of the Easterlings, however. He knew of the horrors of which these demon men were capable. She had not witnessed their atrocities, and he had no wish to subject her to the harrowing and haunting images, much less to the dangers battle with the Easterlings entailed. Still, he respected and admired her far too much to deny her. He would not do her such a dishonor.

So he only tightened his arms about his wife, sighing into her hair. He was too numb to consider the consequences of what had just transpired. Instead, he relished the softness of her skin beneath his callused fingers, the smell of her hair, the heat of her body. The pale moon set her aglow with beauty that made him feel utterly unworthy.

Éowyn lifted her head from his chest and for the first time met his gaze. Her eyes were bright and alive in a dark swirl of emotion. Her fingers came to the side of his face, her thumb stroking his cheek. His larger hand cupped hers, pressing it to his skin. Two souls wreathed in terrible melancholy strained towards each other, searching desperately for some source of solace, of comfort. She leaned in and kissed him, tenderly at first, but desire kindled within them both and the moment became passionate. Faramir swept his hands down her body as she moved on top of him, caressing silky skin, relishing the simple sense of her all about him. The straps of her chemise fell from slender shoulders, and fire enveloped them.

No more words were said that night. Two people, body and soul, became one. The light of their love was enough to ward away the worries, the grief, the dark and cold shadows. They lost themselves in each other, offering comfort, finding peace. For the moment, there was no death, no war. This night was given to them, and they hungrily took it. There was no certainty in tomorrow.


	19. Always a Whisper

"Hasufel, why must you be so  _insufferable_?"

Faramir's whispered words received no response despite their exasperation, for the massive gray horse seemed quite content to ignore his master's annoyance and continue unabashed with his mulish ways. Life, in all of its ambitions and inclinations, was a beautiful thing that was often too easily stolen. Free will was an awesome gift, and each being, whether large or small, great or insignificant, deserved to act under its own volition. Each to his own. Yet he wished that Hasufel might for once just submit and behave. He was too tired, and the day was far too young for such nonsense.

The steward rested his hands on his hips as he stepped into the stall. Hasufel snorted and proudly raised his head, his reins dangling idly from his bridle. The gray form was tucked into the corner of the area, as though the fool horse thought he might be able to hide his great mass in what remained of the previous night's shadows. Had Faramir not been so vexed he might have found the situation humorous. As it was, he only grunted his displeasure and reached for the reins. Hasufel would not be caught so easily, though, and the horse whipped back his head with a snort. Large eyes were vehement and suspicious. After two years, one might have supposed that Hasufel would have long grown to accept and obey him as Roheryn did Aragorn or Firefoot did Éomer. He seemed to enjoy riling his owner far too much to ever change his ways.  _I swear I will never understand this beast!_

That, of course, was not entirely true. He knew the reason for Hasufel's distemper this morning. In the adjacent stall, Windfola whickered loudly, as if sniggering at their situation. Given their common breeding and rearing, it was logical to assume that these steeds of the Rohirrim would get long well together. This could not be farther from the actuality of it. Hasufel absolutely despised Windfola. Éowyn's horse was typically a small, demure beast, but he was of the same playful sort as others of his kind were. Rarely did he let an opportunity to rile the greater horse pass him unfulfilled. This morning was no exception.

"Enough of this foolery, both of you!" snapped Faramir, his patience frayed beyond gentility. Both horses fell silent at the clenched wrath in his voice, but the man knew from experience that this peace would be a transient thing. To the frightened stable boys, he said, "Get the Lady's mount from his stall. I will tend to my own." The lads nodded, wide-eyed at the display, and then went about his orders. They had summoned him when they had been unable to near Hasufel's massive form to properly saddle him. The fiery antics of these horses were something to which Faramir doubted they were accustomed.

It took a few more minutes of cajoling, but the boys finally managed to lead Windfola from his stall. As the smaller, white horse crossed Hasufel's line of sight, the gray animal shrieked and neighed angrily, stepping madly about the enclosed area. Windfola, though, was silent in response, his stance tall and his head high. He seemed to make a pointed effort to ignore Hasufel's actions, which only served to further irritate him. Faramir made use of Hasufel's distraction, grabbing for the reins and wrapping the leather strips tightly about his fist. He moved quickly, yanking on the bridle and turning Hasufel away from Windfola. As soon as the other horse passed, Hasufel calmed.

Faramir sighed tiredly as he patted Hasufel slowly, shaking his head. "You make a chore of everything," he commented quietly. Then he was still, closing weary eyes and lingering in this sudden peaceful moment. There was not the time for this selfish relaxation, he knew. From the ruckus in the stables and the noise from the streets beyond, it was clear the war party had nearly completed its assembly. In a matter of minutes they would begin their journey. He should have been outside among his men, overseeing the preparations. His fatigued body ignored his whining conscience, though, and he leaned into Hasufel's side. A deep breath was too calming, and his eyelids refused to part again. It was ludicrous to even think such a thing, but he wondered if it all might just wait for him. If the war might just wait…

"Faramir?"

The dozing steward snapped to awareness, stiffening his body and turning around abruptly. He resisted the urge to rub the sleep from his eyes; it was unbecoming of the steward to act so thoughtless when so much was needed of him. He expected one of his men to have come bearing a prospect for his approval or one of the stable boys to have returned to help him with Hasufel's tack.

But it was Imrahil, and the Prince of Dol Amroth looked as worn and beaten as Faramir felt. The steward had heard of his uncle's arrival in Minas Tirith earlier that morning, but separate duties had prevented their meeting until now. Imrahil's eyes were sympathetic as he stepped closer and met his nephew's gaze, and the knowing look disabused him of any shame he might have had over his momentary lapse. Such was Imrahil's way. He was a powerful man, stern if need be, but to those he loved and cherished, he was only loving and accepting.

"I am glad you are back," Faramir said. The sound of his own voice spurned his lethargic body into action, and he reached for Hasufel's recently polished saddle. Numb fingers went about loosening the straps. "Aragorn needs your strength now."

Imrahil did not respond immediately, and an unusual tension came between them. Long had Faramir held a special love for the prince, for Imrahil was now the last living member of his family. In those deep gray eyes, he often found a bit of his mother. Finduilas had been a raven beauty with a gentle heart and pale skin. Imrahil bore remarkable resemblance to his sister, which had been one of the reasons, he supposed, that his father had nearly broken all familial connections with the man. Denethor had been crushed by Finduilas' death, and Imrahil was too blatant a reminder of what he had so prematurely lost. Only recently, in the wake of his father's passing, had Faramir come to realize Imrahil was too valuable a friend to simply brush aside in bitterness.

The quiet moment was painful. What was troubling Imrahil was terribly clear to Faramir as his hands absently went about their mundane tasks. Still, he nearly flinched when his uncle spoke. "I was sorry to hear about Legolas." Faramir's heart pounded in newfound fury as he tightened the buckles securing the saddle in place. Imrahil paused then, as though his own words had hurt too much to follow with some sort of trite condolence. Then he murmured, "Ai, this is a foul war…" The prince sighed wearily, his voice laden with exhausted grief. "Why have we done nothing about it?"

The matter was too complicated and frustrating to explain, so Faramir sufficed it to say, "We knew not where or how to act. Perhaps, if we win in Emyn Arnen, a path will be made clear to us… I cannot tell you what my heart still labors to understand."

Imrahil's voice suddenly grew a harder edge. "But Aragorn has not abandoned hope, has he?"

"No," Faramir responded. He finally finished with Hasufel. The horse seemed to understand the gravity of the situation, for he stilled his fidgeting and walked calmly as Faramir led him from his stall. The steward raised his eyes and looked to Imrahil. "His rage has afforded him little else."

Imrahil patted Hasufel's shining coat mindlessly. "It seems we must win Emyn Arnen, then," he declared with a sigh. The matter-of-fact tone in his voice seemed grossly misplaced, almost humorous. Of course they needed to gain victory. The thought was blatantly obvious. Imrahil's white lips curled into a tiny smile, and though Faramir's mood was decidedly foul, he found he could not help but mirror the gesture.

They spoke then of a few simple matters. Faramir asked of Imrahil's ailing wife and was relieved to learn she was recovering from her bout with sickness. The prince had apparently brought his family to Minas Tirith, leaving only his oldest son to command the defense of Dol Amroth. The White City was better equipped to tend to his spouse's diminished health. Moreover, Dol Amroth was still somewhat extraneous from Minas Tirith. Unlike Emyn Arnen, it was well-defended and less easy to access. However, should it be attacked, Imrahil would not be able to reach his home in time to protect his family or his people. His wife and Lothíriel, his daughter, had come to Minas Tirith, along with those of subjects who wished to evacuate.

After that, Faramir shared with his uncle the events since Emyn Nimsîr. Though many of the happenings had been tense and grievous, he was somehow able to speak of them calmly. The detachment was welcomed. The steward's words were quick and concise, for they had little time to converse and there was much to be said. He spoke of the efforts to fortify the city, of the Southron's massive losses, of the grief and tension that had claimed the once peaceful nation. Eventually he spoke of Holis' intentions to formalize the alliance between Gondor and Harad. The words were hushed as the two men leaned close to each other. The threat of enemy spies still lingered, and this information was far too sensitive and damaging to be allowed to escape to their opponent.

When Faramir finished, Imrahil's eyes were distant in thought. "And the king seems inclined to believe this?" asked the prince. His tone was slightly surprised and even more suspicious.

"I do not know," responded the steward. "I have not had the opportunity to speak with him about it." Faramir narrowed his eyes as they reached the entrance to the stables. Dawn seemed too bright, hurting his head further. It took him a breath to control the ache and regain his train of thought. "I doubt Aragorn will quickly agree to such a prospect. And yet… I worry, my friend. I worry for him. His temper has been dark, and though I admire him for his strength and courage, I fear the lengths to which his rage and grief might drag him."

Imrahil was silent for a moment as his considered his nephew's words. The older man rubbed his chin in thought. "Surely Emperor Holis does not mean to do us harm…" His voice trailed into a tense quiet as he saw the hesitation swirl in Faramir's gray eyes. "They have lost as much, if not more!"

Faramir grew frustrated, his expression taut and his eyes dark. "I cannot make sense of this," he whispered, blinking as though to clear the muddled mess of his thoughts. "It cannot be more than it seems, at least this is what logic dictates. Even so, I cannot convince myself that there is not something greater, something malicious and dark…" Faramir shook his head. "I know not if it is because of them, or if it threatens them as it does us… I know not even if I should act upon these… these ridiculous fears."

"They are not ridiculous," reminded Imrahil gently. "Rarely are you wrong about such things, Faramir. You are right to worry."

The steward sighed and offered the other a weak smile. "Always a whisper, never a scream, and only after it is far too late do I understand the warning," he declared sadly. The familiar shame returned with a biting insistence, leaving him assailed with grief and anger. "I thought… Before Emyn Nimsîr I saw Legolas. He looked so lost, so ill. His face was rent with pallor and pain. His eyes… he was haunted, tortured by something that went beyond any simple sickness. Aragorn had told me that the Elf was ailing, and I had noticed it myself, but I did little to stop him from fighting. I felt this terrible shadow all around him, something so dark that it seemed impossible given how strong and bright he was. It seemed to seep from him on every shallow breath …" He winced with the hurtful memory. Sighing, he clenched his fist about Hasufel's reins until his knuckles were white. "And I did nothing. I trusted that he would seek aid should he need it. I trusted he would not be so blind or willfully ignorant of his own condition. I know not how I could be so foolish."

Imrahil was quiet. Faramir did not know what he expected his friend to say to such a thing. What could he say? It would not change the terrible truth of it.  _I let Legolas fall. I had the chance to stop it, to protect him, to save him!_  The feel of Legolas' heated skin tormented his weak, useless fingertips, the sight of those dull blue eyes slipping shut, the weight of the Elf's limp body against his own as they raced from the battlefield… These things would not let him be!  _I failed him, and I failed Aragorn. My king hides his wrath, but I see his hatred fill his eyes. I swore to protect Legolas, and I failed! It was my fault!_

"It was not your fault." Faramir broke from his reverie and met Imrahil's gaze. Surprise left him flushed and shaken. Imrahil's hand came to grip his shoulder. "You only did what you thought best," he declared compassionately. "Prince Legolas needed no caretaker."

The thought did little to absolve him, but Faramir nodded all the same, not wishing to distress Imrahil further. He clasped Imrahil's arm, his grip sound and resolute. "Let us put this behind us," he announced, forcing a note of hope into his voice. "You have been briefed as to the plan, yes?"

Imrahil nodded, obviously realizing that the tender subject of a few moments prior was no longer open to discussion. Seriousness claimed his smooth face, and his eyes twinkled in anticipation. "Aye. My son Amrothos will lead half my legion, and I shall command the remainder. I am led to believe Emperor Holis himself with accompany us this morn. Is this so?"

Faramir sighed softly. He had nearly forgotten about  _that_  particular bit of information. Éomer had informed him some time earlier that Holis would be participating in this campaign. With the Southrons' support, their force was over five hundred strong. He supposed he should have been glad for it. During Emyn Nimsîr he had commanded a few companies of Haradrim, and they were certainly skilled fighters, gifted with amazing endurance. He had been surprised by their willingness to comply with the orders of those who had once been their hated enemies. Certainly they would continue to aid Gondor in her fight. Still, the thought of Holis riding beside him, of participating, of fighting with him inexplicably riled him. "Yes," he finally responded.

If Imrahil sensed his disconcert, he chose not to address it. "I hope it will be enough," he murmured. "We cannot lose another battle." The words hung on the still air, refusing to fade despite the hum of loud activity beyond the stables. Faramir did not want to consider further failure, further destruction. He could not stand to imagine his people slaughtered by the Easterlings should their campaign be unsuccessful. These pessimistic thoughts plagued him until Imrahil broke from a distant gaze and settled his eyes upon the steward. The prince's hand stroked Hasufel's shining flank a moment as he offered his nephew a small reassuring grin. "Let us be on our way. There is much to be done." His eyes shone with hope, with concern, with courage. Faramir felt relieved at the sight, and he bobbed his head absently. Then Imrahil turned and disappeared into the mess of the crowd.

For a long time he stood still, wondering, listing in a great ocean of doubt, sorrow, and anger, slipping once more into a sleepy trance where his traitorous thoughts would hopefully not reach him. It was peaceful in this void, quiet, and he cherished this moment. Was this the right course of action? Was this the correct thing to do? Could he face another battle, another terror, another drop of innocent blood striking the ground? The night before it had felt good and just to him, but now he wondered. His shoulder began to throb, and his heart ached. How many more wounds could Gondor take before she bled to death?

Hasufel snorted impatiently and butted Faramir with his head. Caught unaware, the steward stumbled forward, barely catching himself in time to avoid an embarrassing spill to the ground. Growling, he ripped around, his eyes flashing in anger. But Hasufel only stared at him with firm eyes, as though admonishing him for even getting angry. Though he tried to hang onto his irritation, he was simply too tired. He sighed and took Hasufel's muzzle in his hands. "You are right, demon-horse," he said softly, fondly stroking the animal's nose.

Then he turned and decided to face the world. Denethor had always told him that worry was for the weak, and he would need all his strength to win this war.

* * *

The eastern skies threatened rain. Dark clouds hung low, as though swollen and pained by a heavy burden, rumbling their distemper lowly across the land. The air smelled of an inclement deluge, and the company wavered and tipped in the wind as though they were but blades of grass. Earlier it had been a gorgeous day, bright and warm with the last kiss of summer. It seemed that such fair weather had only been a frivolous pleasantry of nature. A violent storm would soon sunder the land with all the sadistic glee of a cunning villain gloating in his victory.

Faramir peered from beneath the hood of his cloak. The line of ominous black clouds was encroaching further into the blue sky overhead, like a great army of shadow stampeding across things beautiful and clear. The day had darkened considerably, though sunset was yet hours away. Lightning winked and arced through the thunderheads, bright and violent against grays and lavenders. Pent up rage groaned and grunted, causing the land to shake with the distant fury. Faramir sighed wearily as the wind nearly pushed his hood down. This would certainly complicate matters.

They were nearly halfway to Emyn Arnen, having made relatively good time given the size of their army since departing Minas Tirith early that morning. In their company was what remained of the Riders of Rohan, the fifty men eagerly anticipating the taste of vengeance. Joining them at the head of their forces was the battalion of the Elves of Ithilien. Their tall forms were taut with graceful fury. Faramir had rarely seen Elves so afflicted with emotion, and it bothered him to witness their customary peace utterly destroyed. Then came the bulk of the army. The blue banners of Dol Amroth ripped and screamed in the wind, fighting to free themselves from the poles to which they were fastened, the white swan twisted and tormented. Lines upon lines of troops marched silently, their faces tense and their eyes guarded. Though these men had not yet directly participated in the fighting, they were well aware of the butchery of which these demons were capable. During the campaign to the Black Gate, the forces of Dol Amroth had suffered great casualties at the hands of Mordor, and no man would easily forget the heinous violence of such a terrifying enemy. This, of course, made the sight of the Southrons walking alongside them all that much more peculiar. Yet the great hate that had once festered between these men had been stifled for the good of a common cause. Together, the forces of Harad and Dol Amroth boasted more than five hundred men.

Noticeably absent from this campaign, though, was Gimli. The Dwarf had begrudgingly agreed to remain in Minas Tirith, though it was clear from the fury burning in his eyes that he would have rather preferred to seek his vengeance on the battlefield. It made good sense. With Legolas gone and Éomer, Imrahil, and Faramir away, Aragorn was without aid. Should Minas Tirith be attacked somehow, he alone would command the defense, and that was a daunting prospect. Gimli's skills were better suited within the White City. Furthermore, according to the stout warrior, the company he had summoned from the Glittering Caves would shortly be arriving in Gondor. He would be needed to greet them and assume his command.

Finally, following in the rear was what remained of Faramir's rangers. Once he had had more than two hundred loyal men under his command. Twenty had died at Cair Andros. Another fifty had been either slain or taken captive at Emyn Nimsîr. What remained was hampered by grief and rage. So many of their comrades had been murdered, taken to the nameless, voiceless grave of soldiers killed in battle. Faramir feared how many more might be dragged into that miserable hell before this nightmare ended.

Mablung rode up to him. Éowyn turned her gaze from the malevolent clouds, glancing once to her husband before settling blue eyes upon the ranger fast approaching. "Captain Faramir!" breathed the man, offering his lord a stiff salute. Faramir steered Hasufel closer to Windfola, though the gray beast tensed and made quite a huff about walking alongside his arch nemesis. Mablung pulled his horse along Faramir's other side. "The weather looks foul, sir. Prince Imrahil suggests we commence with distributing the men."

Faramir bit the inside of his cheek in thought. It was a relatively simple plan made complicated by the sheer number of men involved. In days past when Orcs and demons had freely roamed the forests of Minas Morgul, the Rangers had made a common tactic of triangulating and attacking. Small groups of warriors would surround and unsuspecting enemy on three or more fronts, and, with the thick forest as cover, charge, trapping and easily defeating them. The woods of Ithilien were grand, dark, and disorienting. At times the walls of massive oak and pine trunks created more a labyrinth than anything else, and during their many years protecting it, his men had come to learn alarmingly well the secrets of the forest. They had memorized the paths and hiding places, knowing by heart where the trees would obstruct their creeping forms, where the roads would converge upon a single point. Such methods had been indispensable when they had been outnumbered in the past, allowing them to take the enemy by surprise upon ground that offered its advantages to only their side. Escape routes were difficult to find and, even if a retreating force should manage to locate an elusive path, maintaining a steady heading was nearly impossible without knowledge of the land. It was ideal.

It made perfect sense to make use of such a successful strategy. It would be on a much grander scale, and Faramir could only hope that would not negatively impact its effectiveness. After crossing the Anduin, the army would split from the small company of the White Guard delegated to protecting Faramir and turn north. This, however, was only a ruse. Once the legion achieved a distance sufficient to convince any spies that their intentions were indeed directed elsewhere, the men would split into smaller companies. Each would be led by one of the rangers into the dense, dark forest. From thence, the Lord of Emyn Arnen would continue to his home, the groups trailing watchfully, hidden in the woods. The rangers would make use of birdcalls to communicate their movements and locations. Thus, when the time came, they would be ready to attack.

Of course, there was no way of being certain  _when_  the Easterlings would advance upon them, or  _if_  they would at all. Though both his men and the Elves excelled at tracking, they could unearth no sign of the enemy's presence. Time constrained the forces of Gondor's ambitions, for if their opponents did not make their foolish move while the bait was located within the expansive woods, their plan of attack would fail. They were even spending a night in Emyn Arnen, both to prepare the refugees for the subsequent day's journey and to allot the Easterlings the chance to act. Surely this would work! Faramir could only pray, and pray he did in earnest. Too much time and effort had been invested into this plan for it to fail without even beginning. Too much hope.

"This is as good a place as any, I suppose," declared the ranger. They would be upon the Anduin shortly, and with the weather so ominous, it would be best to form their attack companies before it rained. Faramir sighed and tightened his grip on Hasufel, slowing him to a stop even though the horse wished to drive further on this familiar road. "Send word to Imrahil, Éomer, and Valandil."

"Aye, Captain," Mablung responded, offering his lord yet another salute before kicking his mare into a trot towards the front of the line. Faramir scanned the thickening woods about them. The army was spread long and narrow. It would be difficult to divide the men with such limited space, but the road was not wide enough for much else, and the walls of trees about them were all that hid their actions from distant eyes. They had wanted to maintain the guise of solidarity until they had crossed the river.  _Even the best plans are flawed by unpredictability._

The steward dismounted, turning his eyes upon his wife. The wind pushed about Éowyn's form, pulling hair loose from the bindings that secured it, but she was tall and beautiful atop Windfola. Despite the chaos of the moment, she was calm, serene, untouched. As she gracefully lowered herself from her mount, he found himself grateful for her presence. Though the thought of endangering her ached within him like a swollen blister, she was simply too easing for him to wish she was any place but at his side.

He must have been staring at her, for she smiled pleasantly, the tiniest bit of a rosy blush coming to her pale face. She took Hasufel's reins from his hand gently. "Take care of your men, my Lord." The sound of her softly chiding voice broke him from his reverie. He felt his face burn in shame, but she only offered him a knowing smile. Faramir watched her in that moment as though she were made more of sun and magic than flesh and blood. Her equanimity was so powerful that she exuded it like waves of liquid warmth. He wondered how he could still be so boyishly enamored with her even after all this time.

But this was no time to ponder infatuation. Faramir rested his hand on the hilt of his sword as he strolled through the lines of his rangers, sharing firm looks with his trusted men. The white banners of his station flapped in the wind as Beregond and the White Company approached. He met his friend's gaze momentarily as the older man commanded his men to halt. There were about fifty in all, and though they were a loyal and seasoned lot, Faramir found himself worried. The White Company would be the only force protecting him as the rest of the army waited to ambush. He knew not how many soldiers with whom the Easterlings would attack, but he was sufficiently certain that it would be well over fifty men. It was silly to consider this, he knew, for what was the point of acting as bait with guards so numerous as to dissuade the enemy from attacking at all?

Still, he could not calm his nerves. He supposed only confidence so encompassing as to border on arrogance could rid him of these concerns, and that sort of conceit would only lead to mistakes. He cleared his throat softly and steeled himself. "Your men know what to do," he declared in an even voice. He was reminded of the many occasions such as this during the War of the Ring, when before a potentially disastrous battle he faced his rangers and tried to offer them solemn encouragement. Experience guided his words. Though often in the past he had doubted his ability as a warrior and a leader, he had learned during his long years protecting Gondor that he was quite capable when the situation required it of him. "Stay to the north and south as much as possible, and avoid the paths at all cost. I do not need to stress to you the importance of remaining silent." The men nodded. There was little more for him to say. The divisions of the army had been decided before leaving Minas Tirith. He could only hope the rest of the infantry would trust his rangers' directions.

Their faces were stoic and their lips pressed into thin, vehement lines. Their eyes, however, glowed with a dim hope and an unspoken fear for their captain. They would not mention their doubts or dismay, but Faramir felt their concerns as clearly as he did his own. He hoped this would not be their last meeting. When finally the awkward emptiness became too painful, he nodded sternly. "See to your duties."

A chorus of affirmations resounded, and they all found resolution in the simple acts of preparation. Faramir watched as they walked quickly to their designated battalions, slipping on light feet up and down the lines of shuffling and parting troops. He trusted them with his life. He would not doubt their skills now.

The sound of approaching hoof beats attracted his attention before he could address the remaining men of the White Company. The steward pivoted as Imrahil and Éomer approached, their mounts trotting lightly along the edge of the crowded road. Firefoot snorted, tossing his head and chewing at the bit, as the young king of Rohan pulled his powerful steed to a stop before Faramir. Imrahil followed the other's act, dismounting his black charger in a flash of chain mail and blue cloth.

Éomer ran a hand across the top of his head, smoothing his hair back. He looked a bit nervous. It was with good reason, and not simply because their last mission had ended so disastrously. "All is well, Faramir?" he asked.

Faramir nodded. "My men have been dispatched. This is in your hands now."

Imrahil's smooth face scrunched momentarily as he looked at the coming storm. "We should make haste. The weather will slow us, and the longer we linger the greater risk we take of being discovered. You must reach Emyn Arnen by nightfall." The prince shook his head and stepped closer, lowering his tone to hushed words meant for Faramir and Éomer alone. "The Emperor has chosen to remain with your company."

Shock came harshly and quickly to Faramir, rendering him speechless for a moment. But his irritation and curiosity returned to him his wit presently, and he stammered, "Surely you jest. Why would he do such a thing?"

Imrahil's face betrayed little of his displeasure, but Faramir knew his uncle was vexed by the happening. "He believes himself to be better placed as bait. As if you are not incentive enough, he believes the Easterlings will never abandon an opportunity to strike at him."

"Does he not consider it even the  _slightest_  bit strange that the Emperor of the Haradrim would participate in the evacuation of Ithilien? It is downright ludicrous, and the Easterlings are not dullards," Éomer questioned. His anger was hardly restrained. "That is too obvious a ruse."

"I know not," Imrahil quietly returned. "I had not the time to question him, and I doubt he would have answered me even if I had."

Faramir did not know whether to be insulted or simply annoyed that Holis had chosen so late in the preparations to make such a vital decision. Imrahil had obviously considered this as well, for confusion and indignant hesitation swirled in his dark eyes. "We are not of the station to deny him his wish." This was the simple fact of it, and regardless of their misgivings, they could not change it.

Faramir released a slow breath. For a moment he pondered the matter, but he rapidly concluded that Imrahil was right: there was naught he could do but accept the fact of it. He could not very well  _order_  Holis to join his own men in the ambush. Furthermore, since he could not substantiate any of his suspicions, his protests would only be groundless accusations. "Then he may ride with us. You will inform him that I cannot guarantee his protection any more than I can guarantee my own."

Éomer's eyes glinted with hard anger. Imrahil nodded. "Of course," he stated.

The three lords were silent then, though Faramir had a strong suspicion that the same thoughts plagued them all. The army was splitting, and their plan was beginning to take shape. Once they crossed the bridge over the Anduin, there would be no turning back. The army would peel away, group by group, until all that remained was the White Company. Communication between Faramir's band and the ambush parties would be severed. The window of opportunity would thus be opened, and it would stay dangerously so for the night as the company stayed in the nearly vacant manor at Emyn Arnen. With the remainder of the refugees accompanying them, they would set out the following morning, holding only the hope that the ambush parties were still protecting them. Upon breaching the eastern shore of the Great River, chance would dictate the fate of all.

The wind roared in the trees, screaming and howling its fury, but Faramir still could not understand the black foreboding within him. It was only a whisper, racing on the cold, vicious wind, and for all his want he could not hear clearly what it was trying to tell him. He refused to entertain the thought of failure, of a dark future, as though simply paying the possibility attention might increase the odds of its occurrence. It was clear from the uncomfortable, torn looks on the faces of his friends that they too were burdened by this palpable fear. It suddenly seemed possible to simply turn around and leave this foolish plan, to race back to Minas Tirith and forget that they had ever envisioned this battle. This phantom future of thunder and destruction could be so easily avoided.

But they had to remain steadfast. Each knew it. Imrahil spoke it. "When we meet again," he said firmly, grasping Faramir's shoulder, "it will be in victory." He offered his nephew a reassuring smile, and that simple gesture was somehow enough to crush the doubts and leave him adamant in their purpose.

He nodded his agreement, and then Imrahil was again upon his horse. They shared a final look of hope and understanding. It was not proper for men of their stature to display familial affection before their subordinates, but such acts were hardly needed, for each knew from the other's gaze the very depths of their loyalty and friendship.

As Imrahil's horse disappeared in the troops, Faramir turned to Éomer. The young of king of Rohan had moved closer to his sister. Éomer leaned close to her and spoke in a hushed tone, his back to Faramir. The steward watched, oblivious to the rush of men about him, as the emotions flickered in Éowyn's bright blue eyes. There was love and then grief. Éomer's hand came to rest on Éowyn's cheek, and she closed those vibrant orbs. A look of pain flashed across her face briefly, and her hand lay over her brother's. The urge to comfort her was strong, but Faramir held his ground. He respected the bond his wife held with her brother, and he would not interrupt.

Éomer was silent then, and Éowyn opened her eyes. Now her gaze sought her husband's, and Faramir knew their private moment had passed. He approached them, and Éomer turned slightly. Few words were shared. To say anything of the tense fear between them made realization of that fear all that much more possible. "We are with you, Faramir. Let this be the last time we defend our nations in this war." Éomer laid a firm hand upon his friend's shoulder. They were reluctant to part, finding strength in each other's resolution, hiding weakness and doubt for the sake of the other's faith.

"It will be," Faramir finally said, grasping the other's outstretched arm. The words tasted sour, but he did not regret saying them as Éomer's youthful eyes glimmered in a renewed hope.

The king's fingers tightened firmly about his shoulder. He shared a final look with Éowyn before mounting Firefoot once more. The horse snorted, holding his head high and standing proudly. "Now they will know our vengeance," declared Éomer quietly, his eyes focused upon the black clouds ahead. "Until then, my brother." With that, he was off in a gallop, racing to the front lines where the army was reforming.

Faramir remained still. Thunder boomed in the distance, and his heart vibrated with the power of the clap. The wind smelled of rain. His mind was muddled with too many thoughts. Most prevalent, though, was the final sentiment, that last promise, he had shared with Éomer. Though Éomer was by no means inexperienced or naïve, there was a certain innocence about him at times that demanded protection.  _Is that why I spouted such a groundless belief? Such a useless assurance? Such an empty–_

"You did not lie, my Lord." Éowyn's voice drew him from his bitter thoughts. He turned to face his wife. Her eyes were gentle and truthful. Again the gales violently tore past her, but she was still and powerful. The army was moving, and the world was shifting. Her hand took his, her slender fingers squeezing tenderly. "Hope can never be false."

Lightning flashed brilliantly, and the sky cracked. Down came the teeming rain, sundering the land with a wet fury. But it did not dampen his faith, for she was steadfast. And if she believed, then it could only be true.


	20. Never a Scream

Evening was well upon them, and the frightful storm offered no hope of repose. The rain came down hard and fast, showering them in a vicious deluge. Though the fury of thunder and lightning had abated, the rain continued madly in their stead. In the wake of the violent wind, the air had become cold and heavy, making the trip most arduous and unpleasant. Faramir was not prone to such visible acts of weakness as shivering or allowing his teeth to chatter. Many years of traversing the wilderness, of sleeping unprotected in terrible heat, in choking cold, and in biting wind and rain, had trained his mind and body to simply weather foul conditions. However, it had been more than two years since he had last had to do such a thing, and he had grown soft in the warmth of manors and beds.

He wiped the water dripping from his nose with a wet hand. The teeming rain had turned his cloths into a soggy weight that was too heavy upon his cold body, and the simple act of remaining upright was becoming an annoyance. The trees bent, their painted leaves bleeding fat drops of water that struck with surprising power. The company was tired, trudging silently and heavily along the well-trodden path to Emyn Arnen. The men were quiet with worries and fears, their unspoken tensions hanging on the air like the chill that clung to them. No one had the courage to speak of his distress. Truly, they were seasoned and experienced, and they had faced far more dangerous and dire situations before. Perhaps the moan of shaking leaves too closely resembled the soft wail of dying dreams, of fading peace. Perhaps the soft patter of the rain too clearly marked the beating of miserable hearts that had once hoped to never again face war. Perhaps the world cried for them, a thousand cold tears like lost moments dripping sorrowfully upon them. Perhaps it lamented their passing into a future that would leave them yearning earnestly for the past.

 _Your mind escapes you._  Faramir opened eyes that had inadvertently slipped shut, shaking his head against his own ideas.  _Such melodrama! If only Boromir could hear these silly musings. If only Father could!_

Still, whatever their worth, these depressing thoughts irked him, and he found himself hating his sodden state. Whatever the future promised, whatever disaster awaited them at Emyn Arnen, it was surely better than drowning in this confounded flood!

Hasufel snorted and tugged at the reins. The melancholic rain had served to dampen even the fiery horse's spirit. Beads of water slipped down his shimmering gray coat, shining in the fading daylight like specks of diamonds. The horse lifted his head, his ears twitching, and a slight spring began to return to his step. Éowyn spoke quietly with Beregond quite some distance before him, and he could just barely hear the hint of her relieved laughter. Ahead the men began to pick up their pace as well. The trees about them were familiar, the terrain well traveled and welcoming. They were nearly at Emyn Arnen.

The steward could not keep a relieved smile from his lips. A grateful sigh slipped from him. He thought fondly of his manor. They had put many weeks into its construction, and though it was not so grand as Minas Tirith was or as Minas Ithil had once been, it had, in the last months, become real to him. It was homey and cozy, despite its quaintness. During the hot summer nights it had been pleasantly cool, reducing the intolerable humidity into an enjoyable clime ideal for lazing and sleeping. It promised as well to be warm during the chilly winter days, for the blocks with which his manor had been constructed were good and firm against snow and ice. Gimli had often boasted during its completion that stone crafted by Dwarves was especially fine material, and never would it relent to the pounding of the elements. A house made of such substance was truly a home.

"There is nothing so wonderful, I suppose."

Faramir jerked at the unexpected voice and ripped about in his saddle. Surprise jolted through him when he saw Holis' calm face appraising him. The emperor had brought his black stallion alongside Hasufel during the steward's distracted moment. The color drained from Faramir's face, and his eyes narrowed inadvertently. Immediately shock faded into suspicion, and in the awkward moment that inevitably followed, he found himself wondering at the man's intentions. For hours had they traveled, and until now, the daunting figure had said nothing. What did he want?

Holis' thin lips pulled into a weak, apologetic smile. "I did not mean to startle you, my lord."

The other's words seem genuine, and the accusation faded from Faramir's eyes. His fingers had instinctively strayed to the hilt of his blade, and only now did he become conscious of the act. Slowly he returned his hand to Hasufel's reins.

"You are tense. Are these lands not your own?" Holis asked.

Surely the man could not be so naïve, so oblivious! "I have seen these forests turn allies upon one another in the confusion of battle. I have felt the wind tear sense from men and turn calm and logic into irrational terror. I have smelled death among the scents of earth and leaves. I have heard these trees weep at the bloodshed. I have known fear in this place, my own fear, the fear of my men, and the fear of my enemies." His words were stoic and even, and they were not without a slight edge. "This forest is not a thing to be taken lightly. You know as well as I that great evil once resided within these woods. I doubt this place will ever be rid of its gloom."

Holis' eyes glazed with something Faramir did not quite understand. The man spoke softly, and though the words were probably not meant to elicit such wrath and anger within him, he felt these things all the same. "Even the light of the Elves could not lift it." Holis sighed, glancing sadly about, as if lamenting possibilities swept away in the scouring rain. "And now it never might."

Faramir did not respond. The crazy storm of his emotions would not calm and allow him to think clearly. His mind raced with the implications of those words. What did Holis mean by them? Could the emperor be so callous and cruel? The grief raged within him, and an incredible urge to simply  _act_ , to yell or fight or abandon the other's company, tickled his tense muscles and bones. Yet decorum permitted none of this, and he merely grinded his teeth.

Still, Holis did not seem to notice the effect he had had on Faramir. The man sighed and lowered his head. The rain had soaked through his hood to mat his black hair. His cheeks glistened wetly. "I never had the chance to express my… condolences over Prince Legolas." The man sighed, as though greatly troubled. "It is a grievous loss for your nation."

Inexplicably, the heat of his anger abandoned him. Faramir turned cool eyes to Holis, wondering at him, frustrated that he was so inept at reading his mood. Was he truly so temperamental, or was he just extremely experienced in masking his true ambitions under false and cleverly crafted attitudes? Unable to discern the truth of it, Faramir decided to simply oblige the other in this conversation. "As Ulpheth was to yours," he responded politely.

"Yes, well, I have not given up hope," commented Holis. A defensive note had come to his words, and Faramir wondered at this as well. Was the emperor now criticizing Aragorn for his recent despondency? Did he think that he was so much stronger, so stoic, so unfettered by guilt and doubt and sorrow? How dare this man presume to judge them? How dare this man think to compare their losses? What did he hope to gain? The steward was so engrossed in these dark, cross thoughts that he hardly registered Holis' next statements. "War is too black a demon to trust, and even the most viable of victories can quickly become the most devastating of defeats. Long have the Haradrim come to accept this truth, and no longer do we seek to assess guilt or distribute blame. I only wish that this war permits me to realize my ambitions, and all else is a matter of destiny."

"And what are your ambitions, my Lord?" asked Faramir.

Holis smiled ruefully. "Domination. Control. Peace." A surprised look must have broken free from Faramir's control and taken his face, for the other man gave a bit of a condescending chuckle. "You are counted as one of the wisest men alive, son of Denethor. Surely you do not think me so pure as to want only the end this bloodshed?"

Once more, this man dealt in thinly veiled insults. Deep within Faramir bristled. He decided to deliver a challenge of his own. "Nay, but, as you have admitted, I am no dullard. Surely  _you_  do not think me so naïve as to believe your pretty talk of peace and unity?"

Holis laughed again. The rain upon his olive skin set his face aglow almost surreally. Though his gaze was solid, there was a glint of something that could only be anticipation. Hunger, perhaps. "Fine. Let us bandy words, then, and we shall see who is the victor. You, my dear Faramir, gaze upon me and wonder at my nature, at my past, and certainly at my true intentions. I appear upon the doorstep of your proud nation at what appears to be a most opportune instant, and you cannot help but ponder the convenience of this. You considered the lack of your country's intelligence concerning mine, and you doubt indeed that the truth lies completely before your searching eyes. I speak of grand things, of policies and hopes that contradict all you and yours have come to know of my people. We are savages, marauders, violent men that act only to further our own evil interests." These things hurt Faramir for their truthfulness. Of course he had considered Gondor's past experience with Harad as a basis for their present dealings. It was only logical to do so. Yet he remained silent, unwilling to gift the other with a hint of his thoughts. "We were servants to the Dark Lord, after all. What can we offer a nation of virtuous men? What can a world of shadow offer a world of light? And you would be right to doubt. Were I in your position, I know I would do the same."

Faramir's eyes narrowed. He could not see Holis' point in all of this; his words were slippery and circular. "Speak clearly," demanded the ranger, "or speak not at all of this."

"You disappoint me, Faramir," Holis said. Though hidden in soft and unthreatening tones, the comment was scathing. "I was led to believe you were a man of great poise and patience. Surely you will indulge me." Faramir seethed silently, turning fiery eyes from his companion and instead looking blankly ahead. All his attention, though, was centered upon Holis. The man said, almost gleefully, "Let us make more interesting this game of ours, shall we? After all, understanding is but the first step of trust. Value can only be measured by risk." The man smiled as Faramir again looked to him. Despite his growing distrust and distaste, the steward found himself interested. "This is what I propose. I will allow you to ask me one question, and I will answer truthfully, provided that you afford me the same honor. In the interests of diplomacy, I shall permit you to go first."

The rain splattered loudly around them as Faramir stared hesitantly. What sort of game was this? His mind raced frantically, twisting the offer, searching it for signs of malice or ill will. Holis' face was calm, annoyingly patient and void of emotion. The choice perturbed Faramir greatly. So little was known of this man and his people. Years of fruitless reconnaissance would not be able to compare to the opportunity before him. Whatever he could learn now would benefit Gondor greatly and potentially cast aside decades of doubt and rumor. Given the apprehension the nation brandished towards the Haradrim, such knowledge could direct Gondor in these next important actions. Yet, despite the undeniable allure of Holis' suggestion, he could not trust it. Why this charade? Holis was no fool; surely he knew Gondor greatly craved information. Was this some test, some ploy to trick Faramir into revealing sensitive secrets? If the man was as loyal and trustworthy as he claimed, why not simply offer this valuable knowledge without demanding compensation?  _He is baiting me. He wishes to see if I will gamble with him. He wants me to engage him in this farce. But why?_

After spending a quick moment in thought, Faramir could arrive at no conclusion. He doubted there was a simple explanation for the other's actions at all. Certainly Holis was a brilliant politician and a glib speaker. Yet somehow this proposal of his seemed more personal, more… selfish. Somehow, Faramir knew this had less to do with Gondor and more to do with  _him._

 _And what if he lies? I understand little of this man, and what I do know suggests he is cunning and treacherous. He will con me of things he should not know! There is no cause to believe he will not!_  Regardless of his screaming cautions, he spoke. Reason dictated he could not let this good opportunity pass, and his mixed feelings towards Holis did little but addle his logic. The man was right about one thing: the giving begot gaining. Even with all his doubts and suspicions, he could not deny the want of his pride and curiosity. He would play this game. Coolly he asked, "Who are you?"

To that, Holis at first said nothing. Then a sly, almost seductive smile came to his bloodless lips. "That was not the question I expected of you," he admitted, arching one eyebrow.

The look chilled Faramir. He said nothing to the comment, though, his face impassive and his eyes hard. He would not play into the other's taunts. The smile slid from Holis' handsome face, and a look of frustrated desire winked in his eyes. For a moment it was there, and Faramir felt his heart thud madly in sudden revulsion and fear.

That was the same hungry look he had worn when he had touched Legolas' hand.

"You may not believe this, Lord Faramir, but you and I have been acquainted in the past." The emperor turned to gaze ahead. His voice was even and confident. "Would it grieve you to know the truth of our shared history? It is a long story to tell. I think the men of Gondor quite short-sighted, at times. To you, the forces of Mordor were but a bulbous mesh of homogenous evil that had to be destroyed. Shadow was shadow without question. Yet you failed to realize that a whole world existed beneath the Dark Lord. War is not so black and white. We fought to preserve our society as much as we fought to destroy yours." The man laughed. Clearly he had somehow amused himself. "Even now, you refuse to see."

Dark eyes deep and empty turned to him. They were utterly piercing. "Do you remember, my Lord, a day more than two years ago? Your men had fortified a falling line of defense. It was a pitiful city, just west of Mordor… Osgiliath, I believe its name was." Faramir stiffened. His heart stopped, and his breath hitched in his throat. Somehow he knew what was to come, though he could not bear the thought of it. "It was a veritable slaughter, for your soldiers were truly less than adequate, and we greatly outnumbered your meager forces. Our intelligence had indicated that you would not allow this city to fall, and though I had my doubts, you did not disappoint. Surely you remember, my good sir? I believe you fell that day." A flash of pain. Blood. Screaming. The ground hard and unforgiving beneath him, slamming into his falling, heavy body like a battering ram did a feeble door.  _No._  "How easily an arrow leaves one's fingers… A trance comes upon mind and body, and together they act in complete harmony. A target is no longer a simple object, but a pulsing, breathing, bleeding thing. How easily life can flee you as you hold a wound, feeling your own blood drip from your body, taking with it your heat, your strength, your very spirit. A lucky shot was all it was."

 _Was it you?_  Faramir never spoke the words, so heavy was his shock. He remembered little of that day, save that he had been among the last to flee the fallen city. The arrow had come from seemingly nowhere, striking him violently and sending him to the ground in a haze of agony and despair. Nightmare and reality had run together like a flood upon a field, and he had struggled on in a pained daze. He had nearly died.  _How could you have known, unless you had ordered it? Unless you had…_

Holis was speaking. Faramir barely registered the words. "Would it frighten you to know the truth? I was no simple man, my Lord Faramir. Neither of us was. Simple men do not rise to our station. I was no freedom fighter. I was no simple soldier or mindless servant of the dark. I was a Lieutenant of Sauron."

Nothing. Silence. Faramir's mind stopped for a moment, stunned in a paralyzed and abrupt halt, and the world drew tight about him. He could make no sense of the implications that instant, save that the man who rode companionably beside him had once been one of his worst enemies. Everything fell away, leaving him reeling in alarm and sudden nausea. He knew he was staring blankly at the man beside him, but he could not help himself, so heavy was the impact of those few scant words.

He released a breath he had been holding softly and forced his mind to focus. The remnants of his thoughts came together, and a chiding voice rang between his ears.  _This should make no difference! This should not!_  But it did. For many years had the free peoples of Middle Earth known of the existence of the Dark Lord's Lieutenants. They were a scant few, and they were to be feared, for it was they who had ordered the destruction of homes and the butchery of innocents. It was they who had reached forth Sauron's venomous fingers and raked the earth.  _How many has he killed? Long did we fight the Haradrim. Many died at Osgiliath, at the siege of Gondor, during the march to the Black Gate! How many did he murder?_

The rage swirled and churned within him, bubbling with heated disgust, and he bit his tongue until the coppery taste of blood assailed him.  _My friends… my father… my brother!_  But he did not speak. The anger gripped him, pushing at limp fingers, pounding upon a still body to act. But he could not! Holis gave a rueful grin. "Your eyes betray your hate to me, Lord. I do not fault you for such a thing. But I will not apologize and attempt to amend a past over which I am not ashamed." Faramir's racing heart shuddered in revulsion, and his limp fingers suddenly balled into fists about Hasufel's reins. "One does not fight a war believing his ambitions false or faulty. One does not serve another's dreams while doubting his own. I did what I did for the sake of myself. I make no excuses, for none are warranted. I served my own will then, and I will continue to do so."

"And what is your will?"

"Ah, my dear Faramir, one question. Regardless, my reasons for this war are the same now as they were when you asked but a few minutes ago."

Faramir seethed, shame inexplicably blooming within him. He did not want to appear the imbecile before this man. Desperately he clawed through his emotions to reach some semblance of calm so that he might think. And then he understood. "You desire power. Power to control others as you see fit. Power to make the world appear right to your eyes. Power to dominate your own destiny."

Holis' eyes flashed brightly. He was thrilled by simply hearing the words. "Indeed," he responded in a cold, even voice, "and you are the same. Simple men cannot grasp the intricacies of life. They see a world of inevitabilities, of toleration, of submission. They see limitations, and thus they limit themselves, fettering ambitions that might have garnered them their dreams. Wealth, notoriety, women, glory… It is because of the simple man's restraint that such things are coveted! Does fate tie one to a well-trodden and otherwise dull and ordinary path? Simple men stand still and accept a world that beats and blemishes them!" The words slithered about Faramir's spirit like a snake, squeezing ever so slightly as they entrapped him as if to test the strength of his defiance. "I am extraordinary. I will not stand still and allow a terrible world to take my hand and lead me down a path I despise. Nay, I am worth more than that. I am captain of my soul. I am captain of the souls of others."

Faramir could hardly believe what he was hearing. The very substance of Holis' declaration was ludicrous. Nobody had that sort of power! Those that did were dictators and tyrants. But it was the way he spoke of these things that truly disturbed Faramir. Such confidence and conceit graced his pleasant voice. He spoke as though he were explaining a given fact of life or a completely rational basis for an argument. He spoke as though he truly believed what he was saying. "That is why I became Sauron's officer. The opportunity was there, and I took it. In our culture, we do not dawdle or beleaguer each other when the time comes to rise. I rose, and I am thankful for it. It is all a challenge, you see. A marvelous challenge. Even the most fundamental truths of life I can change. To reshape the world as I see fit… That is the very essence of my dream. Not to simply dominate, but to change and embrace."

"That is madness."

Holis offered him an amused glance. "Is it, Lord Faramir? Come now. Consider more carefully what I propose. Is it truly so different that what any leader does? He issues commands, he controls the minds and bodies of his people, he remakes order and shapes the lives of those around him. He bends their wills to his wishes. You are not so different from me, and neither is your king. We are all the same. We mold the world as we see fit."

"Yes, but we do not do it by slaughtering innocents and forcing war where there was once peace! We do not spread evil! We do not use terror and trauma to change the nature of the world, no matter how much the world displeases us!"

"A choice."

"Nay, a duty."

"You blind yourself with righteousness and delude yourself with false integrity. Who parses good from evil? Who divides light from shadow? Who defines morality in an immoral world?  _You do._  What gives  _you_  that power?  _You do._  You live by a set of rules that you have defined. You labeled your cause as just and mine as heinous. This is a crutch you have invented, a blinding rationale to protect your eyes from the truth of it. Power is power. You make what you will of it. Do you dream, Lord Faramir? To dream, perhaps, is the greatest power of all. Fantasy bleeds into reality, and everything is possible."

Faramir looked away. He was riddled with disgust, but with more than revulsion did his heart shake within him. He did not want to consider the validity of what Holis said, but a whining, nagging voice bid that he listen, that he not close his mind so easily. No matter how much he disliked the notion, he knew that on some level the other man was right. It was no small comfort to be in control. It was more than just the selfish assurance that things proceeded in an agreeable manner. It was confidence. It was peace and stability.

And perhaps there was some truth in Holis' disconcerting words. So much effort had been put into rebuilding Middle Earth. A proverbial utopia of peace and harmony had risen from the ashes of war. For many weeks had they basked in the glory of what they had won, nurturing the tranquility and savoring the fruits of their suffering. As much as he hated thinking ill of what they had done, he could not help but wonder at how they had secured this amity. Yes, they had fought on behalf of all Middle Earth. Yes, they had protected the innocents and destroyed an undeniably black terror. Yes, they had saved the world. But what gave any of them the right to now build in the wake of such horrific destruction? What gave them the power to shape this era as they pleased? Who had blessed them with such a responsibility? Bloodlines and legacies and destinies? Did those things define man from man and heart from heart? Who had given them their power? It made him feel ill and dirty to simply consider it.

_We did._

"And now, Master Faramir, I believe it is my turn to make my inquiry of you. It is but a simple question, and I require no lengthy answer." The sound of Holis' voice tore him from his dark thoughts. The emperor's eyes were narrowed and empty. In a flash he was again terribly aloof and calm, almost as though he had never so intimately spoken of his heart. Faramir nearly jerked; he had completely forgotten of this silly bargain. He managed to regain his faltering composure, trying a deep breath and moistening his dry mouth. Holis gazed upon him without blinking, and the strangeness of his black eyes convinced Faramir briefly that he was staring into a fathomless void that could hold naught but cold desire. It was an abyss never filled with joy and completion, endlessly hungry.

Holis watched him, and for his own part, he returned the stoic glare. Silence came then, a chilly, awkward one littered with doubt and distrust. Holis seemed to pause in apprehension, as if thinking, as if nervous to reveal his interest. Eventually he spoke, and his tone was now soft and unimposing. "Is your king truly considering our treaty?"

The rain fell hard and strong upon him, and for the moment he felt as though he had been washed away in a furious current of misery. He was drowning in his own foolishness. He should never have agreed to this rubbish! Forcing an iota of calm to claim his riled mind, he tried to reason. He tried to discover why Holis thought such information would be important, especially after making it abundantly clear that he cared for little beyond his own ambitions. He tried so hard to find a logical solution to the dilemma into which he had stupidly worked himself. The question was so unbelievably simple and seemingly innocent, but he could not answer it! He could not! To Holis it would give an advantage in negotiation and planning. It would forfeit Gondor's protection and secrecy. It would betray Aragorn's trust.  _I must lie!_

Yet he could not. He had given his word to speak truthfully. He had vowed to participate in this cursed travesty. His pride would allow him to do nothing less than uphold his end of this bargain. "Yes," he said.

Emptiness took his breath then, leaving him tense and silent. Faramir felt every muscle in his body tense in a painful torture. Sweat collected upon his temples, tickling wet locks of hair. He wished vehemently to take back promises sworn in a moment of arrogance. His curiosity had bested him! What a fool he was!  _I am no Steward. How I have played into his very hands!_

However, belying his fears, Holis only smiled sincerely. "Good. I had hoped he would."

Somehow that simple, soft admission eased Faramir greatly. The pounding of his shame reduced quickly to a muted throb, and his taut body relaxed enough so that he could breathe normally. Slowly the painful thudding of his heart slowed to a level that did not deafen him. They rode in a strange quiet, the echo of what had been spoken drowning out the patter of the rain with strange remembrance and unrelieved conflict. The ghost of a bloody past lingered, threatening sadistically an even bloodier future.

Holis finally spoke again. "Some men are able to reform their thoughts, my Lord. Some men never change." He seemed equally distressed, and once more did Faramir ponder the man's true nature. Had this all been an act? Anger pricked him but not enough to tear his attention away from his fearful and frustrated confusion.  _An act? No, not an act._

_A test._

"Your Lady is calling you."

He looked up, his eyes focusing. Indeed, Éowyn had turned about in Windfola's saddle, raising her hand to summon him. Ahead Beregond was directing his men to slow. They were nearly at Emyn Arnen. Irritation coiled in Faramir's belly; for all that, he was no more certain of Holis than he had been before! Faramir swallowed his contempt and anger. He had embarrassed himself enough this day. "Good day, my Lord." He did not wait for Holis' response, for he could no longer bear to be in the other's impressive presence. His skin was veritably crawling. He felt violated. He felt used.

Hasufel knew his master's wish as he quickly and gracefully leapt into a fast trot without instruction. Faramir shuddered. He could not help it this time. The sight of man's soulless, famished eyes devouring him would not leave his worried mind.  _A Lieutenant of Sauron._

_Some men never change._

As he reached his wife's side, he could not help but wonder with what sort of demon they were dealing.

* * *

Emyn Arnen was waiting.

The manor was tensely dark and silent. Shadows swept over the rooms and corridors, covering cloth, stone, and wood in a curtain of heavy midnight. The air hardly moved. This place, once so lively with activity and hope, was deathly quiet. The ghosts of cheerful servants and bustling residents haunted the halls with a mournful warning, caressing to life fear and anxiety. Hope had turned to horror, grotesque and terrible. The quiet was laden with doubt and apprehension. Night had come, and the Easterlings still had not attacked.

Faramir sighed and tried to relax. Every muscle of his fatigued body was taut, itching with unspent energy, jittery with unwanted suspense. The utter quiet was disturbing, for in the void the pounding of his heart and swelling of his breathing was far too amplified. The steward closed his eyes and licked dry lips, forcing himself to relax. Perhaps the soft mattress beneath him would aid in his effort to slip away from the troubles of the world. But he could not sleep. He would not.

Éowyn laid in his arms, her head against his chest. Though her breathing was slow and regular, he knew she did not slumber. Every so often thunder would grumble and groan in the distance, and she would tense or shift slightly, as if in apprehension of some further disruption to the heavy pall of silence. She felt the same as he when it came to this matter. The attack might come at any moment. There would be no peace with such a threat. Even if tranquility could take them enough to ease them into rest, it would be a selfish and false act. They were the Lord and Lady of this place. They could not slumber idly when such a black shadow endangered them.

Arriving at Emyn Arnen had been both terribly relieving and distressing. Faramir did not appreciate the image of his once growing and flourishing home empty and dismal with the peril of war. Where once more than five hundred soldiers, tradesmen, and hunters made their home in the dense woods, now barely more than fifty remained. Those that had stayed had been fraught with unrest and their lord's sudden arrival had frightened them. Gathering those few refugees in his great courtyard, the steward had briefly explained the nature of the situation to them. Not wishing to discourage or distress them further, he had only spoken of a general threat of attack, offering protection as a reason for his appearance. Simply he was to escort his people safely to Minas Tirith. The lie was bold and hurtful to him, but his subjects were none the wiser to his deceit. It was better to have them focused and confident as opposed to haggard and paranoid.

The rest of the evening had been spent in preparation. Once his manor had been stocked fully with food, supplies, and weapons. Now the grand storerooms were barren, for anything useful or valuable had already been removed and transported to Minas Tirith. If the manor was taken, such goods should not benefit the enemy. Whatever remained had been collected for the journey back to the White City, and what they could not carry, they had burned. The White Company, as weary as it was, would stand watch this night and protect the manor. It had been constructed so that the steward's home and the town proper was completely surrounded by a protective wall. This barrier was not so high or grand as what guarded Minas Tirith, and it was weak in some areas as construction on the structure had not yet been completed. Hopefully it would be enough to at least slow the Easterlings' charge and provide the ambush companies time enough to act.

Dinner had been meagerly consumed. The arduous day of riding and worrying left most without an appetite. Faramir had offered quarters to Holis, and though he feared the strange man might find the sparse accommodations less than appealing, the emperor had only thanked him and bid him a good night. Holis was, perhaps, the only soul in Emyn Arnen that evening that seemed perfectly calm, and even now Faramir found that poise unnerving. His thoughts ran rampant and unrestrained, the perturbing exchange from earlier serving to fuel his wild suspicions. He began to wonder again why the emperor had chosen to remain with his party. Was there some greater evil at work?  _Are we again walking blindly into a trap?_

He shook his head against the pillows as if to banish the thought. Senseless misgiving would do naught but rile whatever of his calm still graced him, and that distraction was an impediment he could not afford. Still, it was difficult to put aside the memories of that afternoon's queer conversation. Even now, he could not discern what Holis had hoped to gain from it. The man had revealed curiously more than Faramir's simple question had required, and in return, the emperor had apparently been satisfied with a minimal answer to his own inquiry. The hungry delight in Holis' eyes plagued him with crawling flesh and paranoid thoughts. The emperor had manipulated Faramir to some end, to some personal pleasure, and that left the ranger distraught with guilt and confusion. He was becoming certain that Holis' question was without import, and Faramir's answer had been even less so. It had been about the game, not about the information. Faramir prided himself on his foresight and his ability to read and anticipate others. Holis, though, was a dangerous conundrum, and the more Faramir learned of this would-be emperor, the more he came to realize that the man was far more than he appeared to be.

He had not told Éowyn of Holis' identity or of what he had done. He did not wish to upset her with the cruel fact of it, and he was not certain at this point that  _any_  of it was true.  _Nay, I do not doubt its truth. I doubt its purpose. He meant for me to make something of what he told me, but I know not what! What am I supposed to see? What am I supposed to think, to do? Where is he leading us?_  He had wanted Éowyn's comfort and advice on the matter, for he still felt dirty for she, like he, had a quick, agile mind that often saw intricacies others missed. But he had not been able to force the treacherous words from his mouth. He did not want to admit his folly until he was sure what the consequences of it would be. He needed more time to think upon it.

But time was one commodity he was sure they would shortly not have. Though the minutes were long and agonizing now, the unknown future was creeping ever closer. Eventually the moment would come when Aragorn would make his choice. Should a treaty be signed, it would bind these two once warring nations together by word and vow. The thought displeased him. Normally he craved peace, but he was positive that peace would not be the result of this alliance. Again, he was without evidence. Again, he hated his inability to grasp the entirety of the situation. Perhaps these ill feelings he harbored were simply the weapon of a grieving mind seeking to lay blame for wrongs done to him. Perhaps Holis was simply a temperamental man who craved the very things he said he did: domination, control, and peace.  _Peace through control. We do the same, really. He is right. Who am I to fault him for having the gall and arrogance to be proud of it?_

 _A Lieutenant of Sauron,_  another thought countered.  _He is malicious! He has served evil willingly! Regardless of his motives now, his ambitions drove him to brutality before! Do not forget Osgiliath! Do not forget what was nearly taken from you!_  Absently his fingers reached up to run along the freshly scarring skin of his shoulder. It had not occurred to him before, but the arrow that had struck him at Cair Andros had done so in the same spot he had been wounded years ago.  _A lucky shot. You do not strike me as a man who relies on fortune's bounty, Holis. You do nothing by chance, say nothing thoughtlessly. That was no lucky shot._

_Some men never change._

He opened eyes that had slipped shut. These pointless, meandering thoughts were doing nothing but furthering his misery. He needed to be free of this striking malaise. He was not usually an impatient man, but he found his idle mind and body this evening to be an absolute punishment. Perhaps a bit of fresh air and some movement would ease him. The thought grew more agreeable by the moment until he finally decided to act upon it. He would not rest either way, so he might as well occupy his wandering mind with matters that would not drive him insane with doubt and confusion.

The pace of his heart must have quickened with the mere contemplation of action, for Éowyn stirred and turned inquisitive eyes to him. "Faramir?" Gently he untangled himself from her, sliding from beneath her slender form. "Where are you going?"

"Just to check the gate," he whispered. His fingers swept down her cheek faintly. A bit of a smile came to his face despite the gravity of the situation. Distant thunder rumbled drowsily. "Sleep."

Her expression was one of stern defiance, but she made no move to follow him nor did she question his decision. Faramir turned, grabbing his sword belt from the desk chair and strapping it to his waist. He had not bothered to undress and merely straightened his tunic with a sharp tug. A moment after that he stuffed his feet into his boots and headed outside.

Having Emyn Arnen so utterly vacant was riling to say the least. Ever since they had decided to reconstruct Ithilien, the new manor had been noisy with all the rushed chores such a massive project required. The manor was whispering its melancholy, the stones lonely for the vibrant life that had once made a home within it. The blackened corridors were cold and stark. It seemed that with the fleeing of the citizens, all energy had quit the building, turning it again from home to a mere collection of rock and wood.

The fall of Faramir's light feet was incredibly loud, reverberating in the long corridors and staircases. He quickly made his way into the courtyard area, seeing the torches of the guards flicker in the breeze as he emerged from the grand foyer. The trees rustled with the wind and rain. The drizzle was very fine, almost a stinging, cold mist that clung to the body in a sheen. Faramir regretted not having grabbed his cloak, rubbing his arms as he approached the watch.

Beregond turned and nodded at him. "My Lord," he said in greeting. The man was completely drenched; Faramir suspected he had spent quite some time standing in the rain.

"Anything?" asked the steward, squinting as he peered down the blackened road. The empty houses were dark and lonely, standing like a line of weary sentinels.

Beregond sighed, shaking his head as he folded his arms across his breast. "Nay, sir. It is frightfully quiet." The irritation and anxiety in his tone mirrored Faramir's own. The rest of the men stood warily, their eyes constantly scanning the darkened town, hands resting impatiently on the hilts of their swords.

The Captain of the White Company was right: it was still enough for Faramir to feel every droplet of water strike his skin with amazing acuity. His breath formed a ghostly cloud of vapor before his lips as he asked, "How is your wound, Beregond?" Before them the black swirled and meshed, and at every glance there appeared to be the haunting figure of a man. Often he was forced to spend another second in analyzing the scene to make sure that it was only the figment of his restless imagination. "Does it pain you still?"

Beregond looked to him from the corner of his eye. "Not at all, and I will be sure not to lapse in my protection of you again."

Faramir smiled weakly, both to reassure his friend and to absolve him of this silly guilt he continually and vehemently tried to assume. The warrior still held himself accountable for falling at Emyn Nimsîr, as though the injury he had sustained had somehow been of his own making. Faramir had tried to disabuse Beregond of this notion, for no harm had come to him because of his guard's forced negligence. Even if it were otherwise, it was still wrong of Beregond to blame himself for the foul course of things.

They stood in silence for a long time. Around them was a great, choking void of blackness, and it seemed to Faramir that the whole world had been swallowed into oblivion. There was simply nothing but an endless abyss beyond the edges of his eyes. The sky was so very dark, drowning light and hope in a crushing blanket of midnight and rain. Without the light of the moon and stars, traveling through the thick forest surrounding the city would be difficult and hazardous. Faramir glanced upward at the formless curtain of black and gray hanging over them, breathing deeply to calm his agitated body. Perhaps these foul conditions would dissuade them from attacking. Perhaps the heavy night would prove too much a hindrance.

"Perhaps they are not coming, my Lord," Beregond whispered. There was a mixture of relief and disappointment in his quiet tone, and for a moment, Faramir was inclined to believe him.

Then there was a shrill scream. Faramir's heart leapt into his heart, thudding wildly, and his eyes went wide as he ripped around. Everything stopped, time drawing to a screeching, perilous halt. A collective gasp went through the watch as a soldier fell from the entrance. All eyes were glued to the horrific scene, bodies paralyzed and breaths locked in tight chests, as the men scrambled across the wet courtyard. "They are inside the manor! They are  _inside_!" Then the man collapsed into a puddle. A black arrow protruded wickedly from his back. He jerked once and then died.

_No._

Reality snapped violently into motion, and the world jerked horrifically around Faramir as his men howled their fury. Swords were drawn, the blades glowing wetly as they were lifted into the rain, and the soldiers charged into the grand foyer. Thought fled Faramir as he yanked his weapon from his scabbard and ran back into the manor, his legs pumping, his lungs burning. Darkness enveloped him as they stampeded with a spray of water into the blackened structure. "Light!" He heard Beregond shouting, vague shapes of men rushing all about him in a frenzied panic. "Bring light!"

A scuffle reverberated off of the vaulted ceilings and high walls. The sound of wet boots slapping against the floor, grunting, and harsh breathing filled the air, shattering the heavy silence that had once dominated the hall. Finally, a light was struck and the man bearing the torch stepped forward frantically. Golden illumination spread out over the area, slamming into the obstinate shadows and shoving them back. The light flickered weakly for a moment, but it did not go out. It remained bright and steadfast in its purpose. But the spirits of every man present wavered before plummeting into the deepest recesses of horror.

_No!_

The scene before them was nothing short of utter carnage. The various sentries that had been guarding the manor and the city limits were littered about the once immaculate floor of the palatial foyer. Many had died in surprise, their mouths open in soundless shrieks, their soulless eyes wide and imploring. Most had been gutted or mutilated. Blood stained everything. It was obvious their assailants had roamed the area, stealthily ambushing and murdering their men, and then had dragged the corpses to this place as a terrible trophy, as if gruesomely gloating.

There was no time to really consider this, though, for the attack was upon them. An arrow shot forth, careening faster than Faramir's eyes could track, and stabbed deep into the neck of the man bearing the torch. With a wet gurgle the soldier fell, and the torch winked out as its flame struck a puddle of watery blood.

Chaos broke free.

Faramir clenched the hilt of his sword as their enemies rushed at them from the cover of blackness. He released a cry of fiery rage as he swung at an approaching demon, his fury controlling his body and mind as a single, flawless unit. There were no thoughts, no worries, no fears. There was only the strength of his wrath, and he embraced it. He felt satisfying resistance as the edge of his sword sliced through flesh, and he yanked the blade from the shadow, whirling madly and driving it into the leg of another monster. The black form before him squealed in agony before falling. Grim approval stroked the fire within him, and he spun.

The fight went on for long minutes. The sounds of death echoed in the large chamber, cries piercing, swords singing, blood dripping. The screams were shrill as they were released with final breaths, and the forms on the floor were trampled under the desperate feet of those still dancing in a fight to live. Opponents were faceless, voiceless, and in this sucking vacuum Faramir could only block and slash on instinct. He settled into a warrior's trance, one where doubt and terror could not touch him, and he went beyond his senses to anticipate blindly the attacks of his opportunistic enemies. He moved languidly, powerfully, avoiding jabs and stabs a split second before the deadly swords would have met their mark, returning with blows of his own. Another man fell as his sword cut his throat. Faramir felt something warm and wet bathe his hands and face, and he vaguely realized he was covered in blood.

It was a nightmare. A depthless chasm spread before them. It sought to devour them, to drag them into its shadowy prison. Second after second went by, each a moment in which this monstrous nothingness might take them. How terrible to meet an end like this! Without honor, without hope, without even identity. In the deep darkness, Gondor became Harad, friend became foe, and there was no escape. Chance and skill were the only weapons afforded to these warriors. Death yearned for them all.

But then it ended. The screams faded, the clamor of battle receding into a horrific echo. Silence. Panting. Moaning and crying. Light came again as someone found the strength to bring truth to the moment. The reality was parsed from the hellish illusion.

Faramir swallowed uncomfortably, struggling to catch his wind. His heart pounded painfully, threatening to break from his chest, and he resisted the urge to gag. As the weak light spread over the foyer, a gruesome sight was revealed. Even more lay dead now, most killed haphazardly. A lucky blow in a desperate and blind struggle was the instrument of choice among those that remained standing. The steward sagged, feeling sick and wearied by the blood staining his hands, his clothes, and his home.

_Pull yourself together! Think clearly, before they come again!_

Quickly his mind pulled together thoughts made loose by the battle, and he realized that the only reason they had won this fight was in their size. The Easterlings had only attacked with a scant few men, most of whom now lay dead at their feet. He did not like the implication of this chilling fact.  _There must be more! Surely they did not attack with so few! There must be many more!_

"Faramir!" Beregond shouted, pulling him from his panicked thoughts. The man's face was white and shaken. "The gate is still secure! How did they get in here?"

Racing ideas and questions tumbled through his stricken mind, and he labored to make sense of the situation. The men were reforming around him, those left unharmed by the ambush approaching from all areas of Emyn Arnen. Panic consumed them, their eyes glowing in terror and doubt.

"Where are the ambush parties?"

"How many more are there?"

"How did they get in?  _How?_ "

"They come again, my Lord!"

Faramir brandished his sword, furious and helpless. This made no sense! There was something! There had to be something! If they did not learn where the enemy was breaching their defenses, they would fall! They could not defend the entire city with such few numbers! He did not know how long it might take for the ambush companies to reinforce their position, but he was not willing to risk defeat by simply falling back into the keep. They would be cornered. Moreover, there was no way to be certain that the Easterlings could not force their way in there as well.  _Think!_  He grew frustrated and frenzied, and only the chiding voice of logic demanded that he remain calm.  _Panic will do you no good._   _Think! If they have not breached the wall and the gate is locked, then they must be finding another way into the compound._ Faramir shook his head numbly and gritted his teeth. _But there are no other ways. Gimli made certain of it. There are no other ways!_

_Gimli._

_Of course!_

The wine cellar. When they had been designing and rebuilding the manor, defense had been a major priority. As such, there was only one entrance to Emyn Arnen, and that was through the main gate. No one could gain access to the city without first passing through the guarded portcullis. As he thought now, though, he remembered that Gimli, when explaining the design of the manor, had told him a natural hollow beneath the western end of the complex. It was little more than a small tunnel that led to a small, old wine cellar. The importance of it, though, was far beyond a simple enclave for the storage of vintages. The narrow tunnel continued for perhaps half a league west of the compound, exiting in an inconspicuous cave deep in the woods. Unless one was specifically searching for it, it was invisible, hidden under brush and rock. The Dwarf had asked Faramir if the steward had wished for him to fill the tunnel and block the exit. He had declined Gimli's offer; the tunnel was useful as an escape route should the need ever arise.

Somehow the Easterlings had come to know of it.

"They enter through the cellar! Hurry! Gather all your men!" he ordered Beregond. The man flashed him a doubtful, worried look for only a moment before rushing off to do as his lord asked. The men scrambled, running with torches through the foyer, heading for the descending paths into the depths of the stone manor.

As he yelled for the men to hurry, another thought occurred to Faramir. At first he gave the needling concern little heed. The worry paid no regard to his bidding, though, growing loud in its insistence until he was forced to consider it. Why attack this way? The tunnel was too small to effectively move many troops quickly, which explained the few enemies they had thus far faced. Surely surprise was not incentive enough to engage in such a wanton maneuver. Did they intend to send men to the gate and open it? "Reinforce the main entrance!" he bellowed. A man nodded and sprinted out and into the rain.

Then it all made sudden and chilling sense. They were to act as bait. The promise of the death of the Prince of Ithilien was the incentive for the attack. The assassins would have gone to the lord's chambers to complete their objective: the murder of the Steward of Gondor.

He glanced around frantically, searching the men. But the man he sought was not among them. He had never been. And then Faramir knew. His world burst into a fiery red. He  _knew!_

Holis had come to kill him.

It hit him like a driving spike of ice.  _Éowyn._

Then he was running, his long legs propelling him up the grand stairs. Beregond was shouting to him, but his friend's voice was lost in the pounding of his heart and the straining of his breath. Panic fueled him, driving his tired body beyond its limits as he bounded down the hall. He could think of nothing save his terror. His fear.  _His wife._

His feet thundered down the corridor. Doors flew past him in a blur of shadow. His body was pumping, aching, dying. Tears bled from the corners of his eyes, streaking into his hair, as he tore through the winding hallways. It was too far.  _Faster. Faster!_

Finally, after what seemed to be a harrowing eternity, he reached the door to their chambers. The hall was quiet and empty. Silent. He could barely hear above the booming of his pulse. He swallowed fearfully, his eyes wide and terrified, as his shaking fingers grabbed the knob.

It was locked.

_Please, no!_

"Éowyn!" he cried. His fury burst free from whatever restraint that had still fettered it, pure hysteria driving his body. He pulled and yanked at the knob violently, but the metal refused to budge. The blood on his hands made his grip slick and useless. This was not happening! Desperate, he pounded on the door with every ounce of his strength, smashing his fists against the hard wood until his knuckles split and bled. "Éowyn, no!" The wood was too strong. It was made to withstand this sort of battery. Yet these logical thoughts never reached his terrified body, and he launched all his weight into this assault. He threw himself against the door with a bang, but it hardly budged. A sob welled up in his throat as he flung his body to it again, putting all his panicked might into the blow.

Nothing.

His sword clattered uselessly to the floor as his strength failed him, grief and fury overwhelming his spirit. He collapsed against the firm door, weeping, gasping, cursing it and himself and the foul workings of life. He had had the chance to stop that demon. He had felt the evil the man exuded! He had had the chance to kill him! But he had done nothing.

Tears streamed down his broken, quivering face, bathing his cheeks in a bloody river.  _Please, take me for my wrongs! Save her! Take me!_

There came a scream, shrill and terrified.

" _Éowyn!"_


	21. Now Without a Word

Faramir did not know how long he knelt there, pressing his quivering, useless body to that door. Time lost all meaning to him. Seconds might as well have been minutes, and minutes could have easily hours. It held no consequence. It held no purpose. He had failed. He had failed  _her_.

He stopped breathing. He wanted his pounding heart to cease its panicked, painful beat, but it would not heed his wistful moans. His eyes slipped shut, though hot tears continued to leak from their corners. The thunder of his pulse deafened and destroyed him with each agonizing blast. Down came his despair, black and flaming, and he did not fight as its claws tightened about his throat. He wanted to die. He could not live without her!

Silence. It was quiet, deathly so. He heard neither cry nor gasp. Distant shouting resounded, but the words were lost to Faramir. He could only concentrate on the room and its unending quiet. Chills caressed his quivering, crouched form as he strained all his senses. Inexplicably a speck of hope pierced through the veil of midnight about his sagging spirit. Though tiny and feeble, it refused to disappear among the suffocating folds of his misery.  _Do not give up! Do not give in! Fight for her!_

His courage roared free from the cage of cowardice. He stood with a cry, grabbing his fallen blade, and launched himself at the door anew, unwilling to admit, unable to accept. Thought fled him, leaving this single, fluttering breath of faith. Gritting his teeth and ignoring the protests of his abused body, he threw all his weight into the door with a hoarse cry.

Needless to say, he was greatly surprised to find the resistance gone.

Faramir's desperate shout escalated into an alarmed yelp as he pitched forward, the door swinging open before his body came to strike it. He was falling, given no chance to balance himself as his excess inertia struck nothing. There was no time to act or think or digest his surprise. He struck the floor, hard and heavy, and the wind rushed from his lungs. His teeth jabbed into his tongue and the bitter warmth of blood filled his mouth.

When he managed to compose himself enough to again swallow and draw breath, he saw gold and light. Dazed, he blinked rapidly, trying to clear the tears from his eyes. The blurry form took shape, gaining delicate detail and soft familiarity.

"Éowyn," he breathed, choking on a sob. He scrambled from the floor, his body lethargic and sloppy as he pushed himself to his feet. His wobbly legs were so weak with the strength of his tumultuous emotions that they nearly spilled him to the ground once more, but he refused to fall. She stood before him, her eyes bright blue with fear and overwhelming joy. Could she be real? Was this merely some figment borne from a mind torn asunder, created from senses that could not bear to subject him to the torture that reality would incur?

But he thought no more on that. His fingers touched her skin, smooth and cool to his rough, sweaty heat, and with a whimper he engulfed her into his arms. The sword she had been holding fell to the ground with a terribly loud clang. "Oh, Faramir! Faramir!" Éowyn whispered, melding into his embrace. He tightened his arms, grateful beyond words to simply feel her against him, to have her racing heart thud near his own, to smell her hair and know the weight of her body pressed to him. For the longest moment the two remained, grasping madly at the comfort the other provided, shaking in great waves of powerful relief. She was safe.  _She was safe._

The world came back to him, and he pulled away, his eyes flashing in intense concern and slowly receding panic. "Are you hurt?" he demanded of her, holding her arms and staring wildly into her deep eyes.

She was breathless, her face pale. "Nay, I am well," she gasped in response. In the meager light he could see darkness cover the white of her nightgown, spreading down the breast of the garment in a sticky, black stain. He realized what it was immediately.

Disgusted and petrified, he touched the blood. But he felt only firm flesh and muscle beneath the wet, thin fabric, and he knew then that she was not injured. The blood obviously belonged to someone else. Panting, he glanced around the dark room, his eyes frantically searching for clues as to what had happened. One arm he kept around his wife, and the other he used to lift his sword from the ground. The shadows shifted.

Faramir's jaw came open limply. He would have thought such an action rude and unbecoming of his station were it any other time. At the moment, he could manage nothing else, so intense was his shock. Apparently he had been wrong. He could not believe it, much less understand it.

"Your lady is safe now," Holis declared quite matter-of-factly as he stepped from the darkness. In a flash of bright steel, his dangerous sword whipped down. Faramir grimaced and lifted his own sword at the abrupt and threatening action. But Holis had only done so to whip the thick blood from his weapon to the ground, as he then wiped the blade on a black blob Faramir belatedly realized to be a corpse. The emperor then sheathed his sword in one languid motion, a metallic ring resounding in the tense, breathless silence.

He stood still, his black eyes holding Faramir's gaze. His handsome face was calm, without crease or blemish, and he appeared the apathetic warrior. His eyes were depthless and placid, but there was fire behind them. They were hungry, hot, and aggressive. But the man made no move towards him, and Faramir felt himself again draw breath. He turned his eyes to his wife, and Éowyn nodded. "He speaks the truth," she whispered. Her pale lips barely moved with the words. "Had he not come…"

But Faramir's misgivings would not be so easily assuaged. He eyed Holis warily, his heart thudding in a mad rush. It was not that he did not believe the words of his wife; nothing could be further from the truth. Still, even as a supposed savior, Holis was masked, guarded and mysterious. Faramir's stomach coiled tightly. "Why was the door locked then?" he questioned, narrowing his eyes as he glared at the emperor.

Holis sighed, making a show of his exasperation. "Really, my Lord. You distrust me so much as to accuse me?"  _Yes, and with good reason._  The man remained silent a moment, his expression tense and resentful. However, Faramir would not divert his stony stare without an answer, and the man eventually conceded. "If I must humor you in this childish prattle, then so be it. I was merely preventing more of these assassins from entering your room as I contended with those already present. Your wife, though she appears quite delicate and fair, is rather handy with a blade. Still, they would have quickly outnumbered her and completed their heinous task had I not intervened, and I venture that neither of us would stand here before you unscathed had I not locked that door."

Such an explanation immediately softened Faramir's fury. It made good sense, even to his muddled and stricken mind. Shame rushed over him, sucking away the strength his anger afforded him, and the wrathful color drained from his face. He felt the fool then, a terribly silly wretch. The man had saved Éowyn's life, a deed worthy of his deepest gratitude, and he repaid it with insult and doubt! How quick assumptions had made the ass of him! Holis spoke again, and Faramir inwardly cringed with the words. "Now, if you are through with these inane and imprudent comments, let us see to defending your manor."

The scathing comment was met with a withering glare from Éowyn, but Faramir squeezed her hand to stifle whatever harsh retort was pushing at her pale lips. Fighting would accomplish nothing, and there was far too much at stake! He pushed aside his bruised ego and moaning pride and adopted as much apathy as possible. He was a soldier, a leader, and the Steward. He was not about to let these petty squabbles jeopardize this mission.

There came a thunder down the hall. A moment later Beregond burst through the door left ajar, winded and desperate. "My Lord, the men await your orders! They have stationed themselves in the cellar, sir!" In the light of the lantern he bore, his eyes were tense and excited.

Éowyn's face broke in confusion, but Faramir paid her little heed. Now was the time to act! "Beregond, have the refugees assemble at the gate. Distribute weapons to all who can bear them. We  _must_  hold that gate! Lead them in the defense."

Beregond nodded curtly, water dripping down in his face in a glistening sheen. "What will you do, my Lord?" he questioned.

Faramir stepped to the door, taking Éowyn by the hand. "I will lead the men through the tunnel to the Easterlings' rally point. We will strike at them now, when they have trapped themselves in narrow confines. Their cunning will turn to disaster and ill-fated planning in a matter of moments."

Beregond paled, although in the faint light his distressed appearance was barely noticeable. "We do not have men enough for such a venture," he reminded them softly, though without heat or rebuke. He was not seeking to dissuade his lord from his plan.

"I know, but we do have enough to distract them long enough for the ambush parties to arrive and crush them. When they come, tell Éomer that the tunnel exits deep in the forest half a league west from this place. Tell him he must attack there!"

"You assume that King Éomer can reach the gate to receive your news. Perhaps the Easterlings crowd outside the wall…" Beregond shook his head against his own thoughts, his eyes dark and clouded with concerned contemplation. Of course, he was right to ponder and doubt. There was much to this course of action that was uncertain and perilous. What Beregond had left unsaid was frightfully obvious. There could be any number of mishaps that might prevent Éomer and Imrahil from ever reaching the manor, not the least of which being the assault of the enemy. Faramir was certain his rangers already were aware of the attack. Still, if they could not reach the gate and learn of the enemy's location, Faramir's effort would receive no support. Death would be the ultimate outcome.

Beregond looked up, and now his face was stern, confident, and commanding. "It will be done, my Lord." The two men held each other's gazes for a moment in a grave look of understanding, the sort that veteran soldiers often share before potentially parting company for the last time. It was without rage, for rage did little to change the horrid fates of war. It was without sorrow, for sorrow was an unnecessary complication of duty. It was quiet and honorable, hopeful but not delusional.

Faramir felt Éowyn's cold, soft hand in his own, and he turned his attention to his wife. She regarded him with calm, distant eyes, but he saw her distress. He could see the fear creep about her piercing gaze. He squeezed her fingers. "Go with Beregond," he bade her quietly. Something akin to defiance sparkled in those striking orbs, and her jaw set ever so slightly. Faramir doubted she would be so brazen and thoughtless to speak publicly against his wishes, for she had been raised to frown upon such impropriety. Still, he gave her his reasons, if only to appease his own worries. "I must have you safe, and our people need you."

Those last words quelled the fire within her, and her face relaxed. Her strength would guide them, and she knew he needed her. This was no menial task or excuse to keep her from danger, and she embraced the responsibility. Éowyn nodded, the gesture small but telling of her love, and she turned with a swish of her clothes and unbound hair. Scooping up her previously discarded sword, she drew a soft breath as she looked again at him. Neither of them typically concerned themselves with melodramatic tokens of affection and romance, and this instance was no exception. They needed no such frivolities. She looked to him, and he to her, and both were secure that this would not be the last moment of their love.

Beregond waited for the Lady of Ithilien to exit the room, after which he offered Faramir one last, reassuring nod before following her. Now the steward was alone with the emperor.

An awkward silence descended upon them. For all the want of his desperate heart and frustrated mind, Faramir could do naught but wait, hoping that Holis would end this uncomfortable moment. Guilt choked whatever words he might have said, strangling his intentions to apologize. Somehow the steward surmised that this moment must have been strange and unsettling to the other man as well, for, though Holis looked in his direction, never did those black eyes fall directly upon him.

Finally, the emperor had had enough. "We waste time. Let us be gone."

Faramir turned suddenly and appraised the man with a hard stare. "I do not ask you to defend lands not your own," stated the steward, vaguely and selfishly hoping to dissuade Holis from joining him. "This fight will be dangerous."

Holis' eyes were cold and steely as he stepped past the still ranger. "Fie, my Lord. The perils you face cannot remotely compare with the hazards put upon a servant of the Dark Master."

The words stunned Faramir into silent submission, and the steward leapt to follow the emperor. The man's stride was long and purposeful as he led the lord through his own manor, and Faramir was astounded by the other's skillful navigation. Though he was certain Holis had only once or twice made this trip through these winding corridors to the entrance hall, the man seemed to know exactly which way to turn at every bend. His aplomb was absolutely disturbing.

Down the stairs they bounded. Though the shadows were thick and formless, neither man was hampered by the blackness that obscured their vision. Steps fell hard and fast, quick and always teetering but never faltering. It seemed to Faramir that they were tumbling into deep recesses where demons and monsters awaited their arrival, where no light could penetrate, where death slithered about the darkness. He wondered at the intelligence in this descent, as he wondered at the tenuous bond that had formed between Holis and himself in this desperate moment. These needling thoughts lurked in the back of his mind, underneath the racing of his heart and breath, below the vague apathy that had claimed him for the sake of concentration. Deep and dark, they burst into a new world. Though only feet beneath the ground, they had breached the walls of a dungeon, a trap, a place where fear and hope and reality all blended into a hot and dark nightmare.

Faramir stepped around Holis as they leapt from the last steps to the hard floor of the cellars. The air was musty and dank, and the steward shivered at both the chill and the gloomy atmosphere. Along the walls, fresh torches hung fastened to sconces, their orange and yellow flames brightly illuminating the corridor. Shadows skirted to the safety of corners and nooks, and in their wake a trail of blood and corpses was exposed. Most of the dead were of the enemy, Faramir realized with no small amount of relief. He grabbed one of the wooden torches, pulling the pole from the metal bracket. The fire wavered with the motion, spreading flickering hope along the dirty floors and damp walls. Shouting echoed, loudly reverberating in the narrow passage, and a lesser man might have been disoriented. Tightening his grip about the torch, Faramir vehemently jogged down the main hall.

The sounds of clanking boots, shifting cloth, and fast breathing filled his ears as the steward led them deeper into the basement of Emyn Arnen. The area was comprised of many storage rooms marked by old doors, a few of which had fallen loose of their hinges. The cellars more resembled labyrinths for all their twists and turns. Not often had Faramir ventured into them, as, even though he was hardly a man to be frightened by macabre tones and spooky surroundings, he found this particular place rather unpleasant and even unsettling. It was a remnant of the previous manor. Gimli had deemed the foundation sturdy enough for their purposes, and this catacomb of a basement had been left intact as the home was rebuilt atop it. Little work had been done to remedy its dilapidated and dirty nature, as many of the carpenters and masons found this place as disagreeable as their lord did. Hardly any of the rooms had been stocked with supplies, especially deeper into the maze, and most were home to only rats, mildew, and the ghost of times past when they had been better kept.

Faramir smiled grimly. His memory had not failed him; ahead was the wine cellar in question. It was nondescript and unremarkable and about as wide and welcoming as any of the others. Men gathered around the rotted door, many standing stiff with fright and worry. At seeing their lord approach, resolution claimed their once slumped forms, bringing light to their eyes and strength to their hands. The crowd of anxious soldiers parted to allow Faramir and Holis to pass into the small room. The steward's torch was handed to another. As they entered, Faramir noted the pile of corpses against the wall, the hideously bent and bleeding forms shrouded in a shadow of death. Quickly he turned his eyes to the matter at hand.

The tunnel did indeed empty into this little dark space. Its mouth could hardly be called a door, as it was more a gap in the wall where the stones had been smashed. The blocks surrounding the gaping hole were ragged. Obviously this exit had been discovered by accident, and no move had ever been made to reveal or repair it.

The room was silent. Three or four men were pressed to each side of the wall, bearing bows and swords, clearly waiting for signs of the next wave of attackers. All senses were strained, focused without lapse or pause upon that jagged breach.

One of the young men stood near the door, holding a torch and watching with wide eyes as his lord entered the room. "Sir!" he barked. His face flushed and eager as he saluted stiffly and nearly dropped his sword.

"Shush!" Faramir hissed sharply. His eyes flashed as he quickly scanned the room, and he tipped his head towards the others holding torches. They understood his unspoken command, and quickly the flames were extinguished. The young man fumbled to follow suit, shame burning in his eyes.

Darkness fell all about them, and only the light from the hall served to fight the overwhelming shadows. The man floundered a moment, their breathing loud as they adjusted to the blackness. But Faramir was ready, and his senses were quick and his feet agile. Holis followed him as he stepped up beside the group of soldiers alongside the wall. "Do they come still?" he whispered, wrapping his hand about the pommel of his blade.

"Aye, sir," responded the man closest to the opening. The soldier was pressed to the wall, his blade glimmering wetly in the meager light that snuck in from the corridor. "They arrive in groups of three or four. We know not if those beyond realize what becomes of them…"

The warrior spoke no more of it, but Faramir understood what irked him about this situation. Surely those on the other end of the tunnel knew that the men they sent into the manor moved no further than this. It seemed inconceivable to expect otherwise; the Easterlings had proven repeatedly the depths of their cunning, perception, and intelligence. But if so, then why continue in this farce?

_There is no time to wonder why. Act now, think later!_

"We go in," Faramir declared in a calm whisper, "quickly, carefully, and in force. Move forward in small groups. We must push them back and hold them until reinforcements arrive."

Another soldier spoke, a faceless voice emanating from the shadows. "Sir, is that wise? Why not simply wait here? We hold an advantage!"

To say the thought had not occurred to him would have been a lie, and there was no worth in deceiving himself. Yet again did the doubts surface within him. Why forfeit this stronghold? As long as they guarded this point, the Easterlings could not advance further into the manor. Though they could not be sure all of the intruders had been killed in the previous encounter, Faramir doubted many more could sneak about undetected. Furthermore, they surely could not open the gate from within as heavily guarded as it was. This was a fine position to defend, and to his conscientious mind it seemed a perfectly logical if not safe course of action.

But he could not accept it. Something greatly bothered him about this situation. It was almost too sloppy, and such behavior was decidedly uncharacteristic of their foe. Gondor had been lured into too many traps by these demons. Carefully did they plan and manipulate situations into creating a certain perception that guaranteed them a victory. Faramir could not attribute the sensation to anything but pure feeling, but somehow he knew that there was more to this than they could see or understand. Once more were they skirted the boundaries of a vicious trap, and he did not want to be lured into the hidden jaws. Their enemies wanted them to remain secure in this supposed advantage.

Moreover, the desire to see these monsters pay for their crimes was snarling within him. This campaign was meant to be an offensive incursion, and Faramir intended to strike a blow to the Easterlings for all the damage done to Gondor and her people. He was disgusted at the hatred festering within him, but at the moment, with the thought of what those demons would have done to his wife tormenting him, he did not care to repress it.

Holis spoke, reminding Faramir with an embarrassed jolt that he had fallen silent. "Listen to your lord," ordered the emperor in a cold, quiet tone. He spoke no more, giving no reason for the men to obey him, but the others did all the same. They grew silent and calm, preparing to go to battle with a slow breath. The steward gritted his teeth, perturbed that this complete stranger could so easily command his men. Who did he think he was? Was his mere presence so powerful, so austere, so dominating? Anger churned within him, and he clenched his fist hard enough to dig his fingernails painfully into palm.

Forcing these distracting thoughts aside, he turned a bit, angling his neck to peer into the tunnel. The vacant whistle of wind came from the vacuum. The passage was not large enough to effectively swing a sword, especially if one had a comrade beside him. He realized that an archer with a stout bow would be the best leader of their charge.

He turned and regarded of the soldiers. The man was a bit elderly, his face worn and tired of life. "Give me your bow, sir," Faramir asked quietly, as he nodded curtly to the soldier. The weathered face adopted a knowing smile, and then the man's head bobbed, handing his lord his short bow. A quiver half full of brown fletched arrows the steward received as well, and he quickly strapped it to his person. He made certain the arrows were easy to grasp and that they came free from the quiver without resistance. He would need to be able to move quickly and stealthily, and a snagged arrow would only leave him fumbling in the darkness.

After testing the string of his bow, he turned to his men. "Follow after me in rapid procession. Do so quickly and quietly. We must not alert those presently in the tunnel of our approach, lest they turn and warn the camp. Do  _not_  turn back. Is that understood?" he whispered, looking about the men assembled. His words were met with resolute nods, and the steward turned.

He gripped the arc of the bow and inched closer to the entrance. The man who had been standing in that position scrambled to the other end of the wall. Though the black had moments before been complete and effectively blinding, his eyes had now well acclimated to the darkness. His training as a ranger guided his body and his senses. Long had he been taught to consider the shadows an ally, as they guarded movement well. This time would be no exception, and he was almost glad for the utter vacuous darkness within that narrow tunnel. If he was careful enough, the Easterlings would never know that he was coming until it was too late.

Holis stood close to him. No words were shared, but it was more than obvious what the emperor intended. He drew from his belt a dagger, and angled himself along the other side of the entrance. Faramir drew a deep breath to calm his nerves, his heart pounding madly in his chest. His hands were steady, though, as he pulled an arrow from the quiver and fitted it to the bow. He closed his eyes briefly and thought of Éowyn. Though Gondor was perhaps a more suitable source of solace and confidence, he could only imagine her, the look of fright upon her pretty face forever burned into him. He would not stand to see her threatened again. He would not!

He opened his eyes and looked to Holis. Together, the two of them stepped into the tunnel.

Darkness enveloped them. Faramir could see naught save the faint outline of shadow upon shadow. Holis released a short breath, perhaps in dismay or surprise, and that quiet sound was abruptly amplified to a seeming deafening rush of wind. Even the slightest noise might alert the enemy to their presence. They would have to exercise extreme caution.

Quickly they advanced down the tunnel. Faramir swallowed panic borne from the sensation that they were inexplicably racing towards oblivion, to an endless abyss that would hungrily swallow them, to their own doom. As disquieting as that was, he was not about to be dissuaded by it. Years of training and innate talent brought to him calm and composure. Upon this black path there was no up or down, no left or right, no sense of forward or purpose. It would be all too easy to become disoriented and lose whatever meager sense of direction he still possessed. To combat this, he pressed his forearm to the wall as he ran, and he did not once lose contact. He only hoped the tunnel was relatively straight, otherwise this strike would end quickly when the men became lost in the emptiness.

Faramir heard footfalls and heavy breathing. In an instant he knew these sounds were not of their making. It was ahead of them.  _They are coming._

He came to a short stop, drawing a deep breath. He felt Holis halt as well, though the man was merely an outline of lighter shadow upon pitch black to his eyes. The emperor stood absolutely still, and if Faramir had not felt the heat of the man's side pressed to his own, he would not have known a soul inhabited this tunnel besides him. Clearly the man was as skilled with weapons as he was with words, for he appeared to be quite an able warrior, gifted with the stealthy skills of a ranger. Inexplicably he grew envious of the other's talents.  _A Lieutenant of Sauron should be so gifted. Now concentrate!_

He focused. The crushing darkness seemed to draw in his eyes, and he grew lost and disoriented by the nothingness. Heavily he leaned into the wall, reminding himself what direction he was facing. Slow footfalls echoed loudly, and that cacophony was followed by the booming hiss of whispering voices. Years of experience permitted him easy localization of the noise: these men were some twenty or thirty feet ahead and slightly to the right of their current position. They shuffled and ambled slowly, as if frightened by what lay ahead of them.  _As well they should be._ These fools had no hope for stealth, given the ruckus they were making.

And could this be? Faramir nearly shook his head as he squinted into the darkness. For a moment he held his breath, doubting his eyes, for of what they were trying to convince him seemed utterly preposterous. A few tense moments followed, and in the span of a few heartbeats, the steward was forced to accept his sight for the truth. The approaching enemies bore fire. Torchlight licked and lapped at the walls, turning them brown and golden. The penumbra grew as the light pushed back the black veil. Soon it encompassed the men themselves as they snuck towards them.

Faramir nearly smiled for their stupidity. There were four enemies in total, and they walked in oblivious pairs. Their faces were wrapped in black cloth, and they were garbed so as to conceal themselves in shadows, shadows they had foolishly scattered with those torches. Eyes glinted nervously as they quickly scanned the tunnel about them. The steward knew he and his companion were safely out of sight, and it was more than likely from the men's confident approach that they had no concept of what awaited them.

Faramir drew a deep breath. It was time to clear the path to victory.

Then he lifted his arm and drew back on the bowstring. Even if his target had noticed the swish of cloth or the sound of the weapon bending, he was not given time to react. The arrow left Faramir's fingers and a breath later it struck the neck of the man on the right. The soldier went down with a screech and a gurgle. His comrade opened his mouth to scream a warning, but he never got the chance to voice his intentions. A careening dagger sunk deep into the man's chest, and he fell back, his mouth open in a soundless scream.

By now, the other two men were fumbling for their weapons. Their attempts to defend themselves against their hidden attackers would be too late, though, for Faramir had already drawn another arrow taut along his bow. His aim was straight and true, and his shot brought down the third man easily. The steward reached behind him for another arrow, but he saw momentarily there was no need. A rush of sound within a vacuum of breathless fear heralded Holis' coming, for the emperor had sprung forth from his position like lightning arcing through a midnight sky. A second later Holis was beside the remaining man, his gleaming blade held parallel to his chin. The sword rammed the terrified Easterling, and the man only choked softly on his final breath as his former leader felled him.

The torch was upon the ground, burning still though the hand that had once grasped it was now limp and lifeless. Holis returned to stomp out the flame, but Faramir rushed to him, stepping around the mess upon the ground. "Leave it," he gasped softly, "to light the way from the others."

Holis met his gaze a moment, the dark eyes of the emperor questioning and cold. He only nodded curtly, though, and then they were running again. Time was of the essence. They would have to move quickly before the camp realized that these latest men had never reached their destination. Behind him Faramir could just barely detect the sounds of their own forces entering the tunnel. He narrowed his eyes in satisfaction; the men were following quickly and as silently as they could. All that mattered now was reaching the end of the way before the Easterlings realized they were coming. Whatever doubts that might have once plagued him left in the heat of excitement and hatred. It was too late to turn back now.

His lungs burned. His heart thundered. Everything felt slow and lethargic, though in reality they were running with all possible speed through the blackened passage. The darkness pulled at him, latching onto his clothes and hair, seeking to trap him within its endless and hopeless prison. As the seconds disappeared, the steward could not help but begin to worry. Surely they were close to the exit! He wondered at how long they had been running, for certainly it had been but mere minutes, but that small period had been elongated by fear and apprehension. A stupid thought occurred to him, and he found it rather insulting that he could not silence its needling voice. What if there was no entrance? What if they had been somehow turned about? What if they were trapped?  _What if —_

But ahead there was light. Faramir found himself nearly shaking with relief at the sound of the rain striking the ground. Dark blues chased away the suffocating blacks. Ahead there were tall stripes and moving blobs. Men among the trees. The air smelled cooler and cleaner, losing its tight hold upon them, and the sickening sense of claustrophobic desperation faded into a warm rush of exhilaration. The walls moved away from them, widening into the cave at the end of the tunnel.

The two men parted ways, Faramir stepping quickly and softly to the left wall of the cave. The shadows swept down and consumed Holis' form as the emperor halted along the right end of the room. Only his eyes glowed bright as he pressed his body into the embrace of darkness. Faramir watched him for a moment longer before inching silently along his own wall. He stilled his breath, wishing not to alert the group of enemies outside the cave's entrance. A quick estimate revealed about twenty men immediately beyond the cave, and Faramir was certain more remained obscured from his vision, hidden by the dense woods, the rain, and the night. Even so, twenty was a few more than two men, no matter their skill or experience, could face alone.

Thankfully, they would not long have to wait for reinforcements. The other Gondorians were already arriving, for their steps grew more audible with every passing moment. There was no more time to delay. Every second they spent in deliberation was one more the enemy might use to his advantage, and Faramir was certain that some greater, more heinous plan was their true intent in this attack. Maintaining a defensive strategy had thus far gifted them with only defeat. Given all probabilities and the uncanny nature of fate, another bout with such a mindset would likely deliver the same disastrous result.  _"Value can only be measured by risk."_  Never was there a truer thought!

If they were to waylay their enemy, now was the time.

He gritted his teeth. There was no choice to make, for this was the only option. He was tired of seeing Gondor's blood spilt by these cruel and vicious demons. He was weary of the guilt and shame, of the helpless anger, of the nights spent wondering and hoping. This battle would not be lost on account of hesitation or fear. They would make this stand!

He pulled an arrow from his quiver and fitted it to the bow. The weapon was a bit shorter than those he usually brandished, and he took this into account as he peered into the shadows beyond the cave, choosing one particular shifting blob as a target. He glanced at Holis briefly, and he found the other man ready and waiting. Then he pulled the bowstring back, narrowing his eyes as he stood stiff and powerful. The arrow was released with a snap, and a second later the blob let loose a mighty squeal before disappearing, crumpling to the shadowy ground. An alarm immediately resounded through the camp, shouting and running feet drowning out the steady hum of the rain. The death had caused Faramir's intended effect, for the men were disoriented and surprised enough not to immediately realize from whence the attack had come. This moment of proverbial chaos was sufficient for the ranger to fell another man. As they scrambled for cover, Faramir relaxed somewhat, intensely grateful for the harsh weather that both impeded their motion and hindered their senses. It was providing an opportunity to both thin their numbers and delay their counter.

The boon of surprise quickly disappeared as the Easterlings began to realize the murdering shots were originating within the very cave they thought to be secure. Many more soldiers appeared within the trees, alerted by the commotion, knowing now that they were under attack. However, this conclusion had come to them too late, for the men of Gondor, fierce and powerful, poured from the cavern.

Faramir was silent and deadly as he stepped from the rock wall, yanking another arrow from his quiver. Light feet carried him into the rain, the nock of the shot already appropriately set to the string. Seconds later the arrow whizzed through the air and struck an approaching Easterling full in the chest. The man gave a muffled howl, his body snapped back by the force of the impact, his limbs twisting and bending as he tumbled to the muddy ground. Faramir only spent a breath watching before stepping rapidly to the side, avoiding the slash of a wicked sword. His assailant growled a frustrated curse, wheeling about and stabbing at the agile man again. The young lord moved without thinking, bringing his bow to block the blow. The sword cleaved the wooden portion in half, and this seemed to shock his assailant. Faramir used the man's distraction to his advantage, grasping the jagged end of the bow and ramming it into the other's exposed midsection. In a split second the ranger's sword exited its sheath, and the killing blow was dealt.

Grasping his bloody weapon tightly, Faramir spun, glancing back to the cave. His men now raced from the entrance, crying their fury, their weapons raised murderously. Rain drenched him, dripping into his eyes as he pivoted and rammed his fist into the face of an assailant. The man went down with a yelp, and the steward swung his sword up in a flashing, beautiful arc before driving it into the back of the prone man at his feet.

The woods came alive with the sounds of battle. The discord was fierce and frightening, chaos dominating the moment. Everywhere men fought and died, struggling to preserve their own life though the cold, wet night sought to steal it. Screaming and harsh breathing rent the air, and the trees wept furiously at the gruesome scene before them. It was hard to make sense of the chaos, for men of good and evil meshed together leaving only bare souls praying for their very survival. In the dark, it was difficult to tell friend from foe.

Still, it seemed fortune was smiling upon Gondor for the first time in this horrific war. Though the nation's forces were fewer, they had managed to strike a serious blow in the first few critical moments of the skirmish. Surprise had proved to be a powerful ally indeed, for the Easterlings were scrambling to form lines of defense against the assault of the White Company. However, Faramir knew that unless reinforcements arrived shortly, this initial victory would quickly turn into lasting defeat. They were greatly outnumbered. It was only a matter of time.

The last of the White Company burst forth from the cave, and the newest wave of soldiers joined the heated skirmish among the dark, brooding trees. Rain splattered all around, retarding movements and hindering senses. Faramir growled as he smacked aside the sword of an Easterling with a terrific screech. The force rattled his arms, and he was thankfully quicker to recover from the jolt, stabbing his blade deep into the man's chest. He wasted not a moment, whirling to face another attacker who he had heard charging from behind. He grabbed the man's wrist, ducking beneath the deadly blade, and shoved him back forcefully. The Easterling had not been anticipating this tactic, and a flash of sadness appeared within black eyes as he realized his fatal mistake. The steward's sword slashed his throat open.

Faramir stepped forward, his eyes wide and quick in looking about. He saw Holis battling. For a short moment, he could do nothing but stare. The man fought with such elegance and grace. His body moved in easy, languid feints and returns, and was he seemingly aware of each potential threat. The steward's stomach twisted at the sight with both admiration and a sense of confused disquiet. The way he spun and blocked, the lightning agility and quick feet, the utter calm and ease of every movement…  _He fights like an Elf. Like Legolas._

He did not know why this observation bothered him so, but it certainly did. A queasy sense of disgust and anger mulled over his heaving body. Certainly it was not so odd a thing. Elves were endowed with natural prowess in the arts of war, skill and talent that went far beyond what any mortal could ever hope to attain. The closest example of such power was Aragorn, for the king had been well-versed in fighting by the Elves of Rivendell. Holis appeared to succeed even Aragorn in ability, though. His polish and poise were uncanny.  _Indeed, you are no simple man._

As he stood there transfixed, he realized as well that Holis had been right in his premonition. He alone faced many opponents, having attracted the murderous rage of many foes. Those close to him he felled easily, but more and more arrived to the battle, enticed by the thought of slaying their most hated enemy. Faramir watched in dismay as a line of archers noticed the heated skirmish, and these men pivoted from their previous targets. The tips of the deadly arrows glistened wetly as they were pointed at Holis. He would not be able to defend himself! They would kill him!

And thus it came to it. A mere second was allotted to consideration of action, and this was not nearly enough time to fully deliberate the merits of what his body was already doing. Implications and consequences were lost, and his form jolted into a sprint without conscious direction. It did not occur to him that this man was a murderer, a monster, a demon that had killed many of his friends and nearly himself. It suddenly did not matter that this man had been his nemesis for years, that this man had ordered the massacre of thousands during the War of the Ring, that this man had been a Lieutenant of Sauron. Faramir acted, and there was nothing more.

The steward bounded through the woods, his legs pumping, his heart thundering, his breath ragged. He forced all the speed he could from himself, flying between the trees, narrowly missing men and swords alike. He would not make it!

Bowstrings were drawn tight and then released with a shattering  _twang_.

He leapt. Holis turned at the exact moment Faramir collided with him. They went down in a mess of limbs, striking the ground hard. The arrows rained upon them, the edge of one tip grazing Faramir's temple as they tumbled. The pain and terror did not register, for the wind had left his body. The deadly arrows uselessly struck the ground where Holis had once stood.

Forever they seemed to roll. Faramir struggled to draw breath at the rough handling of his body. Finally, they came to a halt. Disoriented, the squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to keep his dizziness under control. Bile burned the back of his dry throat, but he only swallowed awkwardly. His pulse boomed painfully in his head, wracking his skull, and he winced. A weight atop him made breathing difficult, and he groaned. He cracked open his eyes when he felt sufficiently confident the nausea was under control.

Only after blinking away trapped tears and rain did the blurry scene gain any measure of focus. And when it did, Faramir found he had lost his wind again, though this time it was not pain or physical upset that had stolen his breath.

Holis' face was dangerously close to his. The man was sprawled atop him, effectively pinning his body into the wet leaves. Water seeped into his clothing, caressing his back, and Faramir shuddered. Those black eyes… The steward remained absolutely still. Never did the hungry, midnight orbs relinquish their hold upon his eyes. A numbing terror crawled over his body, ridding him of the ability to struggle. Stiff and horrified, he could not even find it within himself to move.

A hot breath caressed his face. "Thank you. I will not forget this." Light fingers came to wipe the blood drooling from the minor wound on Faramir's brow.

Then Holis was gone. In one swift motion, the man stood and faded into the rush of the battle.

Reality slammed violently into Faramir, and he rolled over, his chest heaving and his form shaking. Quivering fingers touched his temple where the other had smeared the blood. He suddenly felt terribly sick, his mind stricken and his body reeling with both the fall and the grotesque encounter. He could not even wonder at the exchange, so riled were his thoughts, and he sat in the muddy leaves for what seemed to be an eternity, struggling to overcome this disturbing moment.

_What does he want with me?_

"He comes!" A shrill cry filled the woods, loud and piercing. Unspeakable elation echoed in the tone. "The king comes! We are saved! The king!"

The shout was enough to break Faramir from his stupor, and he stood. The dark, wet forest spun uncooperatively around him a moment, and his legs wobbled, threatening to spill his bruised body to the ground once more. With a great amount of will he was able to push aside his fears and momentarily forget the caress of those fingers upon his skin. Stumbling, he lifted his sword and glanced around. He felt terribly confused and lost, as though days of action had transpired in the few moments he had spent dazed.  _The king? Éomer?_

Indeed it was Éomer, and a cheer went through the weakened White Company as the thunder of approaching horses boomed over the rain and raging engagement. A moment later the parade of mounted warriors spilled from the shadows, launching into the fray. Swords cleaved heads from assailants. Horses kicked and reared. Men screamed in death and life.

Faramir turned around dumbly as a new source of proud cries reached his ears. He could hardly believe it. From all around did the ambush parties attack. The men charged from the thick woods, abandoning cover of darkness with weapons raised and hearts ready. The companies had completely surrounded the spot, pouring into the skirmish with fervor enough to rejuvenate the nearly beaten White Company. Yells of the glory of Gondor and Rohan were music, loud and euphoric. The Easterlings scrambled, floundering immediately as the great host surrounded and surprised them. There was no hope for their victory now. They were greatly outnumbered.

The fight lasted but a few minutes more. Faramir remained strangely detached from it, hardly noticing the stubborn Easterlings mount a last offense against their forces. His mind was lost in a violent haze of confusion and fear. He fought mindlessly, experience and instinct guiding his hands when his mind would not. Before he realized what had happened, it was over. The Easterlings had been defeated. Those that did not surrender were killed.

The rush of battle was slow to recede, and when it did leave his beaten body, he nearly collapsed to the ground for the lack of strength. Tiredly he leaned against a tree, watching as the Riders of Rohan herded up the remaining enemies. The men were cheering loudly, sharing their jubilation with the damp, cold night. Éomer and Imrahil approached, each veritably glowing. Warmth spread over him, and he smiled, gasping. The three men embraced, and the rain sang a chorus of exultation for the forces of good.

Only then did it strike him, the strange moment before all but forgotten.

They had  _won_.


	22. Delight and Despair

It was over.

If there was any hope before, there could be none now.

Legolas was gone. They could not somehow bring him back.

_Dead._

Perhaps before there had been some shred of faith, some belief that there was a way to change the terrible finality. Perhaps by simply winning this war, by defeating the evil that had tormented them, the Elf would be restored and all would be as it once was. It hurt to realize there was no such panacea, that no act, simple or complex, could make right the wrong done to them. It was the way of a desperate mind, though, to cling to the impossible, to hold to the most ludicrous of chances. It was the only defense against a truth too terrible and cruel to accept, and when that final protection was stripped away from them, there would be nothing left but the undeniable reality.

It seemed to Faramir that such a time had come.

The steward grimaced and resisted the urge to flinch as his wife pressed a cloth to his bloody head. Éowyn's face was stern, but her eyes glistened with a bit of restrained amusement. "Sit still. Surely it is not so uncomfortable," she admonished softly. Faramir grunted, forcing his tense form to relax as she dabbed the wound. The laceration was not very deep, though it had bled quite a bit. Truth be told, there was simply too much to be done to waste time with this. He did not have the patience to sit still through the treatment of these minor scrapes and bruises. Éowyn had insisted, though, and he was not in a mood to subject himself to her cold wrath, either.

The victory at Emyn Arnen felt ages old to him, but only a day had passed. It seemed a completely unrealistic prospect to now be safe within Minas Tirith when only last night he was fighting in the dark, dangerous woods of Ithilien. His exhaustion afforded him a strange sort of detachment, and everything that had transpired since their sudden victory appeared to his lethargic mind as a hazy dream in which he had played no part. They had taken roughly fifty Easterlings prisoner. The number was not high, but, as it was, there had not been many of the enemy present in the beginning. Faramir had found it quite surprising that their foe had allotted so few soldiers to this battle, as the rough estimates on Imrahil's part had only resulted in a count of two hundred or so initially. Many had died. Those not fortunate to be slain in battle had taken their own lives when faced with captivity. The sheer number that lay dead in the woods had been astounding when the sun had rose to shine light upon the gruesome sight. As Faramir had stood, looking over the corpses strewn about the bloody trees, he decided that war was such a revolting waste.

Of the prisoners, though, a few were of special import. By a seemingly stroke of good luck, they had come to capture one of the Easterlings' leaders, a warrior who called himself Fallax. The man had an ill look about him, his face heavily scarred and his eyes haunted by hatred and lust. He was a great hulking mass of muscle, and he exuded a threatening air of malice and violence. He was the perfect picture of a soul crushed by war and rebuilt into a demon that loved anarchy and detested peace. He had been silently seething when the White Company had brought him, bound and chained like a vicious animal, before the feet of Faramir, Éomer, and Imrahil. The lords were unable, for all the want of their fiery, furious hearts, to elicit so much as one word from the brute. Faramir had offered leniency. Imrahil had threatened. Éomer had insulted. After nearly an hour of these sorts of fruitless endeavors with nothing but frustration and further hatred to show for it, Holis had intervened. Faramir had opted not to observe the emperor "persuade" the prisoner to speak; just thinking of it now made him feel dirty and shameful. They had not had the time for any other measure, but to his disgruntled mind such a rationale was putrid and poor. Sure enough, though, Fallax responded to Holis' treatment, and within minutes he had revealed the location of the Gondorian prisoners.

From thence they had ridden east. The Easterlings had apparently brought with them those they had captured at Emyn Nimsîr, dragging the bound and injured men about as though they were trophies. Though the prospect had at first surprised Faramir, the more he pondered the matter, the more he came to realize it made some sick sense. The Easterlings clearly lacked a steady camp; they moved quickly and at great distance. This beneficial tactic had twisted into their downfall. Their temporary position had been two leagues east of Emyn Arnen, and the Riders of Rohan had easily conquered their base. The place had not been fortified by many men; it was clear they had not anticipated an assault. The prisoners had finally been freed.

This was a great victory for Gondor. Faramir had watched with trepidation and hope as the Riders had returned to Emyn Arnen, his eyes wide and wistful. Concealing his pain at the terrible sight of those tormented souls had been far more difficult than he thought previously. Many had been beaten and brutalized. Most required the skilled hands of a healer, though Faramir doubted care for their bodies would do much to heal their obviously fractured souls. Rage had boiled in his blood as he had witnessed the men return to their friends. Even Holis, reserved in the moment, smiled at the return of the hobbled Ulpheth. But many were missing still. There was no other option, though to accept the cold truth was equitable to betrayal of friendship and hope. Those for which they still could not account were certainly dead. Faramir closed his eyes, blocking hot tears from their exit. He dreaded having to share this terrible news with Aragorn. Even now, when all seemed bright with triumph, shadows still encroached upon the edges of light.

The wounded had been placed on horses, and without further ado, the company had returned to Minas Tirith. The prisoners were made to walk in the rear under the constant supervision of Imrahil and his men, kept far from the innocent refugees that were escorted by their Lord and Lady. The Rohirrim headed the journey, leading the caravan across the Anduin, eyes constantly directed about them. For a time it had seemed doubtful indeed that this victory could be true. Paranoia had driven minds into fear and dread and hearts into rushing paces. Though there was no sign of such a thing, each man had privately feared that this, too, would be some sort of ruse, and that at any moment, when they were all least expecting it, when they were comfortable in success, the attack would come.

But it did not. When they reached Minas Tirith, the news of their victory spread quickly. The men walked tall and proud, euphoria gleaming in tired eyes though their faces remained stoic. The trumpets had resounded, clear and musical, welcoming back the heroes. The White City seemingly came alive, women waving at the returning troops, children laughing and playing in the streets, and everywhere there was joy and hope. Despite whatever problems still remained, whatever grief that lingered in hearts unwilling to acknowledge it, for the moment at least all was well. The evening had been bright and beautiful with camaraderie and compassion. Morale had soared, and for the first time in what had seemed to be a long and dark while, the dream of peace had reclaimed the people of Gondor.

As much as he wanted to remain with the celebrating troops and citizens, there was still much to be done. The prisoners had been booed, hissed, and insulted as they had been dragged through the rowdy streets. Fallax had done little aside from glare knives at everybody who dared meet his gaze. To Faramir's knowledge, the Easterlings who had surrendered were now in the dungeons of the city, under tight security for both the protection of the people and their own sake. Though the matter was remote to the present concerns, he could not help but wonder what would become of these monsters. Nay, not monsters. Men. Now, stripped of their weapons, armor, and pride, they were just men, not so different from the warriors of Harad that had aided Gondor in her cause. He tried to pity them at least for they perhaps they had served their cause unwillingly, chained to the dreams of their leaders as much as the Gondorians were bound to those of their king. Tied to darkness by their lords as much as Aragorn tied his nation to light. Yet this logic did not sit well with him.  _Not men. Never men! They are monsters. They walk without humility, without repentance, without even admission of defeat! They do not fear us. Black, empty eyes… Never will they gain a soul to fill them!_

Faramir scowled. He wanted to believe that the prisoners were simple men, that their hearts burned in remorse or at least fear of punishment. But, as they were paraded about the streets and ridiculed by the citizens of Minas Tirith, not even one of them had shed a tear for their plight. None had hunched his shoulders in grief. None had begged for mercy or admitted his wrongs. They stood as tall and proud as the triumphant men of Gondor. This unnerved Faramir greatly. The wound within him, festering in grief and wrath, would not close. He knew he would need their penitence to heal. Sadly, he feared such regret would be long in coming, if it ever did.

His face began to sting and Faramir jerked sharply. Éowyn was quick to grab his jaw and hold him steady. He looked at his wife through the corner of his eyes, annoyed anew at her insistences that he receive care. The Houses of Healing were crowded with both the injured men from the battle and the recovering prisoners. There were hardly accommodations for him, and his wounds were minor grievances at any rate. He had no patience for this. Aragorn was expecting him in the Citadel for a report, and there was much to be said.

But he knew better than to question her. She was vehement, as he could tell by the cold glimmer in her eyes and the strong set of her jaw, and to cross her now would not be wise. There would be no quarrel, but Éowyn's wrath would be silent and icy. In his current condition, he doubted he had the strength to contend with a wife irritated. She was intent upon seeing his nicks, scrapes, and bruises tended, and though he itched to be in action, he could not deny his body's need of this moment of rest. Though his mind was alive and alert with many thoughts, he was weary and fatigued. Despite all the unanswered questions and unresolved hurts, he longed to sleep, to find some semblance of peace and forget this misery if only for a little while. He felt as though he had not truly rested in ages, and old injuries ached as persistently as new ones did. Éowyn had seemingly known of his unspoken wishes. These few moments would be enough to refresh him, he hoped.

She worked silently then at wiping away the blood. There was a great commotion all about them. Everywhere men and women were running, carrying trays of flasks, bandages, and herbs, and a dissonance of chatting, shouting, and moaning hummed in the warm air. Though there was much to be done, there was contentment. Death did not slink and creep about fearful hearts as it had days before. There was a controlled sense of euphoria that gave energy to the weary and faith to the hopeless. The defeat of the Easterlings had breathed life into Minas Tirith, and it was a glorious and welcomed sight.

Still, some things could not remedied, even with the touch of a healer's hand or the news of a powerful victory. Hidden beneath the spring in their steps and the glow in their eyes was the solemn knowledge of what had been lost. Of what could not be restored. So many had not come back. So many had not been found. It was difficult to truly enjoy the prospect of peace when such heavy burdens weighed upon the survivors. Minds had been poisoned with the sight of comrades tortured and dying. It was a consequence of war, proven immutable many times in the past. Even the best victory was soiled by the shame of those who had survived. It was a duty of life, to bear this guilt and memory and sorrow in the wake of a battle won through the sacrifice of comrades. The fact of its inevitability was not a comfort now, though perhaps one day it would be. A time for mourning would soon be upon them, and already the sad song of loss whispered in the quiet.

Faramir looked up at Éowyn, for his wife had slowed in her actions. Her face was empty and apathetic, but her eyes were distant and sorrowful. She had obviously been considering the same melancholic thoughts that he had. The sight of her bright gaze sullen and forlorn made his heart ache, and he reached up to grasp her hand. She collected her obviously scattered thoughts, focusing upon him. He tried to smile, to offer her some semblance of strength. Her expression softened, the glowing blue of her eyes twinkling as she gently caressed his knuckles with her thumbs. She knew he could not make right the things done to them, but she appeared grateful for his attempts all the same.

There came the sound of swishing skirts beyond the door of this small room. Faramir turned, releasing Éowyn's hand, and looked ahead. At the open portal was Lady Ioreth. The older woman's face was glistening with perspiration, a few wispy strands of graying hair falling loose from a tight bun. She bowed to her lord. "The prisoners are resting easily," she announced calmly, lifting her head again so that she might meet his gaze. "Most will recover." She strolled to the wooden cabinets, quickly returning a few bottles and flasks to their proper place.

Faramir winced as Éowyn tenderly rubbed a bit of salve upon his head wound. The stuff smelled utterly repugnant, but he remained still as his wife dabbed and spread it. Ioreth remained at the cabinets, her back to the steward. Faramir had known this kind woman for a very long time, for she had helped to govern these Houses for many years. She was a great ally to the House of Denethor, gracious and strong, wise in words and sturdy in act. He knew the depths of her compassion. Many times in the past had Boromir and he returned to Minas Tirith with their proverbial tails between their legs, sneaking into the Houses of Healing to have their scrapes and cuts tended without their father ever coming to learn of their latest foolish venture. Denethor had been a stern man, and though Ioreth did not appreciate their recklessness at times, she had never denied them care, clean clothes, and a reassuring hug or pat. Her motherly love for the sons of Denethor had only increased after Finduilas' demise. Faramir trusted her explicitly, for she was great of heart and mind, and her simple perspectives on the most complicated of issues were often calming and helpful.

Something troubled her. Though he did not doubt Ioreth meant to inform him of the prisoners' well being, she was tense with whatever had truly pushed her into seeking his audience. Rarely was the older woman hesitant to speak her mind, and Faramir found himself dreading this obviously important and sensitive topic. The awkward silence continued to dominate for a moment more, but Ioreth finally spoke without his prodding. "We must let him go, my Lord."

Faramir stiffened. Now he understood her trepidation. When he could not bring himself to address her statement, she turned. Her face was calm, stern, and sorrowful. "We cannot bring Prince Legolas back. He is gone. He is dead. We must let him go."

Anger inexplicably consumed him, and he let it. At least fury was more comforting than the emptiness her words promised. "It is not so simple," he muttered, looking away. He shrugged off his wife's soft hands and stood from the chair. His hateful eyes turned to the floor.

Ioreth would not be dissuaded so easily. "It is, Lord. Until we properly mourn him, there can be no closure! This city suffers with his loss, but it is this fruitless hope that the King forces upon us that scrapes raw hearts until they bleed! Do we honor his body, his memory, his love by denying him final rest? Do we honor what remains…"

"Nothing remains, Ioreth," Faramir said softly. The bitterness in his tone made his own voice sound alien to his ears.

Ioreth sighed softly. Her voice was gentle, without heat or reprimand, as she said, "The child remains. We remain." She shook her head as she neared him. Gray eyes shown with only affection and sadness. "She loved him dearly. She considered him her father. Though she knows he is not coming back to her, she does not realize  _what_  this means. Her real father was taken prisoner when Cair Andros fell during the War, my Lord. Her mother never let hope that he might one day return fade. We tell her that Prince Legolas has gone some place better, that he will never come home. But we have not shown her that we believe that, or that it is even true. We cannot keep doing this to her or to ourselves."

Faramir turned away his eyes, for they were beginning to sting with tears he did not want to shed. He released a long breath, struggling to maintain his composure. It hurt terribly to admit the truth of Ioreth's words, but his duty bade him to do so. She continued to plead this case, and now her voice was laden with grief and worry. "The King suffers, my Lord. You know as well as I do. He is tearing himself apart with his rage and shame. He is destroying himself with his sorrow. I worry for him. We must do something…"

He hated that this had been placed upon him. He hated himself for his weakness. He hated his hands for what he had failed to save, for the life that had slipped from his very fingers… "I will speak with the King," he declared finally, looking up again and meeting Ioreth's gaze. "And I will speak with the girl, if you will have her brought to me."

Ioreth's relief was visible. Her eyes softened, and her kind face relaxed enough so that the lines of age and worry about her mouth and eyes faded ever so slightly. "I will. Thank you kindly, Lord Faramir." She made a quick bow before stepping outside the room.

Silence came, and it was laden with a desperate wish to take back the oath just sworn. Faramir walked to the washbasin beside the bed, figuring that he needed to clean himself a bit so as not to frighten the child. He dipped his fingers into the cool water and then splashed a bit on his dirty, bloody face. His wife was silent as he wiped the grime away with a towel. When he was finished, he felt a bit cleaner, at least on the outside. Inside, his soul was covered in the muck of guilt and sorrow.

Éowyn lowered her head, turning her deadened eyes to the jar of salve in her hands. Her long fingers replaced the lid on the vessel. The soft thud of the bottom of the glass striking the table was incredibly loud. "You do not need to do this," she said. There was a wistful note in her voice, and he knew it was not for weakness that she wanted him to deny this charge. She knew of his guilt, of his shame. She did not want to see those feelings plague him as they did Aragorn. She did not want to see him suffer.

"I must," he whispered, lifting her chin with his hand. A tear trickled from the corner of her eye, slowly moving down her pale face. "I am the Steward. It is my place to advise the King." She leaned into his touch, her hand coming to rest over his. "And… he was my friend. I will not abandon him again."

His thumb caught her tear. "I miss him," she whispered.

He stepped closer, wrapping his arm about her thin waist and pulling her gently into his chest. "I know. I do, as well."

"I… I feel like we did nothing to help him. We let him suffer and now…"

 _There was nothing we could have done._  The words never came to his mouth. They were lies. They were wrong.

There was a knock. Husband and wife parted, both looking to the open door. Ioreth stood there, now with a small form cuddled against her shoulder. The woman spoke softly to the silent child, and Fethra lifted her head. Her wide eyes settled on Éowyn, and her face broke into a joyous smile. "Ehwyn!" Ioreth set the struggling child to the ground, and she immediately sprung towards Éowyn.

The Lady of Ithilien gave a small laugh as she lifted the little girl into her arms. "Fethra," she whispered, and her eyes closed tiredly as she hugged the child tightly to her breast. "I am glad to see you, darling."

Fethra kissed Éowyn's cheek and wrapped her arms around the woman's neck. Éowyn smoothed the girl's messy red hair, smiling at her, cherishing this quiet moment before the storm of sorrow was released to ravage the child's happiness. "Where did you go?" pouted Fethra, her lips protruding with the words, her eyes flashing in the sort of laughable irritation petulant children often display.

Éowyn sat on the bed slowly, settling Fethra into her lap. Faramir watched his wife with the girl and smiled despite his growing trepidation of the coming minutes. Not often in the past had they discussed having children of their own. The prospect both alarmed and intrigued him at once. He had little experience with children, as he was the youngest in his family and Denethor had not been very sociable with other parents or even with their own relatives. He did not know what sort of father he might make, given the opportunity, and to say the idea did not concern him would be quite the lie. He had had a difficult example in his own father. Seeing Éowyn with this child, however, stirred a quiet desire within him, a gentle flame that warmed his heart with paternal love and good intentions. It also made him quake in hurt and rage for this particular child's misery. He had no wish to augment it, but Ioreth was right; it would only hurt her further if she carried hopes that could never come to fruition.

Faramir sat beside his wife, his eyes never leaving Fethra as the child excitedly told Éowyn of the things she had done in the lady's absence. Éowyn nodded at the story, but Faramir knew she was not truly absorbing the girl's words. When Fethra saw Faramir, she abandoned her tale and snuggled closer to Éowyn, her eyes wide and suspicious. The man wondered if she remembered him at all. They had only truly seen each other once, and the child had been hysterical at the time. Éowyn smiled reassuringly at the small form in her lap. "Dear, this is Faramir. He is my husband."

He was silent, not truly knowing what to say to the child. They stared at each other for a moment, wide green eyes on sorrowful gray. For all the horrors to which the poor creature had been exposed, she was still bright with love, life, and innocence. He wondered how many more blows her fragile spirit might be able to sustain. He did not wish to be the one to break it, to take from her whatever of her precious faith remained. He did not want to hurt her.

These fears rendered him mute, his lips slack and his voice lost to him. Fortunately, she spoke. "You were with Leglass," she declared quietly, watching him with unblinking eyes. "You were with him when he got hurt."

Faramir cringed inwardly at her mispronunciation of the Elf's name. Somehow that innocent act made this so much more painful. It seemed almost a term of endearment. "Yes, I was," he said softly.

A long moment of silence came to them. Fethra looked away from him, and all the glowing joy on her rosy face faded with the realization of the gravity of the situation. Faramir breathed deeply, trying to calm himself enough to speak, trying to find the appropriate words. He rehearsed lines, imagined the sounds and feelings, struggling to simply anticipate their impact. Éowyn could not look at him, her fair face pale and troubled. Finally, he simply spoke. "There… are no words I might say to ease this hurt. But I must tell you this." The child still refused to look at him. It was as if he had already spoken the hateful truth. It was as if she already hated him for it. "We… we told you that Legolas had gone away. That he has left for a better place." He rested his hand on her small head as she nuzzled against Éowyn. His throat constricted. Damn this all! "We cannot help him any more. We cannot bring him back. He is dead, Fethra."

She did not speak or move for what seemed to be forever. Faramir could scarcely breathe. His bleeding heart shook for the horrible sound of those words. How could he have so easily said them? He had wanted to sound strong, to offer her his power, his understanding, his love. But the words were too weak, too soft, too pathetic. She would most certainly despise him for this.

"He promised me he'd come back. He promised, Ehwyn," moaned the child into Éowyn's chest. "He told me Elves can't die."

The woman blinked back her own tears as she caressed Fethra's hair lovingly. "We know, dear. Sometimes things happen that nobody can stop or foresee. It hurts, but there is nothing anybody can do to change it. We must be strong and brave."

But the child was sobbing now. "I want Leglass. I want him. He takes care of me. I want Leglass!" She hiccupped, the sound muffled by Éowyn's arms. "He said he'd stop the bad men. He said he wouldn't let them hurt anyone more!"

Faramir was unable to bear the sounds of her agony any longer. Wiping at his watering eyes, he slipped from the bed and came to crouch at his wife's knees. His hands rubbed the little girl's back soothingly. "And they will not," he assured her silently. "He gave his life to stop them. And stop them he  _did_. He did."

A quiet emptiness dominated the following moments. Faramir was still with pressing hope, watching the child intently, praying that what he said might be enough to ease her suffering. He wanted so badly to help her, to protect her as Legolas had. To give back some of the hope he just had taken away.

Finally she lifted her head. Teary, red eyes peered at him, hesitantly, wistfully. "Who will take care of me now?" she whispered fearfully.

Éowyn's hand lay atop his as he rested it upon Fethra's head. He felt the warmth of her soft skin, and he knew her strength, her courage. Her love. "We will, Fethra. You are not alone here." The girl inched closer to him. "And you never will be."

What she did then to his pledge was not at all what he expected. She cocked her head and crept out to the absolute edge of Éowyn's knees, nearly toppling from the woman's lap. The Lady of Ithilien steadied the child as she peered at Faramir, her green eyes doubtful and analyzing. For reasons that seemed utterly silly, he felt nervous under her scrutinizing gaze, the fine hairs on the back of his neck rising in anxiety. Then she reached out her hands and rubbed his cheeks.

She giggled then. "You're all furry." Then she grinned, her cheeks wet and her eyes twinkling. "I like you! Furry Faramir! Furry, furry Faramir! Furamir!"

At first, he was somewhat insulted by the remark. Fethra kept chanting that ridiculous name, and he felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment and annoyance. There was another voice sniggering, this one a little deeper. He looked up and shot his wife an irritated glare, to which she only smiled and giggled louder. The sound of her merriment eased him, and his awkward humiliation vanished.

He smiled. His own laughter, long choked by anger and anguish into silence, had never sounded so pleasant.

* * *

Given the excitement of the day, the Citadel had grown exceedingly and surprisingly quiet with the coming of night. Faramir darkly marveled at how still and forlorn the once bustling manor was, eyeing the darkening corridors suspiciously. Servants had seemingly retired early, for though the sun had just set and their tasks were completed, they would often remain working and talking of the day's gossip in the halls. As the steward made his way to the small, private meeting room of the King's quarters, he wondered at the tense silence that had claimed his home. He remembered Ioreth's words, wincing inwardly at the implication of the wise woman's worries. Had Aragorn truly spread such wrath and sorrow about his kingdom as to choke the very cheer from his home? It had only been only two days since their departure to Emyn Arnen. Could the situation have deteriorated so rapidly?

Éomer grunted. His hazel eyes darted about the dimly lit halls as they mounted the final set of stairs that would lead them to their destination. "He has made this place dark with his rage," murmured the young king as he glanced around them. Finally his apprehensive eyes settled upon Faramir. "How can we tell him the truth of it?"

Faramir sighed wearily. "He knows already," he answered softly, "whether or not he wishes to admit it to himself."

Éomer did not comment further, although it was clear his mind was running with thoughts and fears. The two lords had met a few minutes prior in the Citadel's courtyard, as Éomer had come seeking his sister and had encountered Éowyn and Faramir as the two returned to the manor. Upon hearing that the steward sought the king's audience, Éomer had requested that he join his brother in his task. Faramir had been dragging his feet for all intents and purposes, for, though he had sent word to Aragorn advising the king of his arrival, the thought of speaking with his lord weighed heavily upon him with doubt, grief, and a bit of trepidation. He had meant to only speak of the events at Emyn Arnen. Though their victory had been absolute and undeniable, there were many issues left unresolved and questions remaining unanswered. However, the addition of this duty to convince the king that it was time to mourn made the other matters seem totally trivial. Few things in life served to upset Faramir into cowardly acts. This prospect of delivering to Aragorn the suggestion of letting go utterly terrified him.  _The man is grieving for a friend, for a brother with whom he has shared a friendship longer and deeper than I can understand. What right do I have to demand that he deny his pain, that he move on? I have no such power!_

The thought did not sit well with him, his nerves rattling with the lightning of anxiety. He dreaded facing Aragorn now when his failure was complete. He dreaded the sour taste of the words and the bitter glare that would be their response. He dreaded the anger and guilt and sorrow. He dreaded being helpless to their whims.

 _You cannot hide from him anymore than you can hide from the truth. There are matters of business to which you must attend. Think of this alone, and face the moment when it comes!_  "Legolas' death tears this city," Éomer mumured, bowing his eyes as they walked down the dark and silent hall. "His death tears all of Middle Earth." Those words were little more than whispered breaths, but they struck Faramir with the force of a violent gale. The steward winced, feeling tears again threaten. A moment passed in which neither spoke, the silence riddled with disquiet and anguish. Neither wanted to stifle the plaintive cries of yearning hearts. It seemed to do so would be to betray Legolas further. Then Éomer breathed. They had reached the doors to the meeting hall. "Perhaps–"

"Nay, my brother. We can do no more." How treacherous that declaration sounded! The gall he had in saying such a thing! "There was no sign… And even if there was, I would not even know how to try…" The steward's voice failed him, his eyes distant and his heart heavy. "There can be no more hope."

Éomer's face fell, his once hopeful eyes now dark and shining with unwanted wetness. He looked away, as though ashamed at this weakness and at proposing such a thing. Faramir sighed softly, gathering his wits and strength about him. He would be strong, for himself, for Éowyn, for the child. For Legolas. Steady hands grasped the handle of the doors. The metal was cold to the touch. Firmly, he opened them, prepared to meet his king.

Shadows stretched across the meeting room. A fire burned brightly in the hearth at the opposite end, warding away the coming chill of autumn. Golden light flickered across the area, and Faramir saw Gimli seated at the grand table, smoking his pipe with a scowl upon his ruddy face. The last light of day was tiredly stretching through the windows, lethargic in these final hours of duty. It taunted them with the hint of peace, but it would not stay. In a matter of minutes the sun would disappear, and the shadows would return as surely as they did every night.

Gimli turned to face them long after their entrance, as if parting from his thoughts had been a barely surmountable task. The Dwarf pulled his smoldering pipe from his mouth as he stated, "He speaks with the Queen."

Faramir nodded, stepping further inside and taking a seat beside the stout warrior. Éomer closed the door softly before sitting as well. He limped slightly, and Faramir was reminded suddenly that he, too, had been wounded. In the past days Éomer had borne the commanding and confident stature and visage of a king. For the benefit of his men had he hidden his hurts. Now, when he was among friends, when the threat had been abolished, there was no reason to disguise this weakness.  _None of us has escaped this unscathed._

"Her misery must be great," mumbled Éomer as he gingerly sank into the plush chair. His eyes were respectfully lowered, his hair limply falling about his bowed face.

Gimli's voice was a deep, bitter rumble. "Aye, she does not wish to betray him with acceptance." His eyes were black and narrowed. "And neither will I."

Faramir winced.  _Please, not this…_  He did not wish to counter Gimli's words, for again the relationship broken by Legolas' loss was not his to understand and thus discuss. Éomer, however, did not take well to the thinly veiled accusation in the other's voice. "You act as though it was our fault." His tone was low, his voice seething hurtful venom. "You act as though his blood is upon our hands alone!"

Gimli growled, his eyes flashing murderously, as he glared at the young king. "I will not be party to this," snapped the irate warrior. "I at least tried to stop the fool Elf from fighting that night! I was not the one who failed him, who let him fall! And I am certainly not the one who kills him now with doubt and hopelessness." Faramir flinched, closing his eyes in fury and clenching his hands into fists.

Éomer grunted hotly. "You speak rashly and cruelly. Honestly, Master Dwarf, what would you have us do? We can no more bring Legolas back than we can breathe life into a dead body. He is  _gone_." The king turned away his piercing glare, as though suddenly ashamed of what had said, of what he had done. "His loss is upon us each equally. We stood upon that cursed field and watched the sickness devour him. We mindlessly observed the fever consume his eyes, the strength flee his body, the power leave his hands… We all did  _nothing_. Do not blame us solely for Legolas' death, Gimli. It is a stain we share."

"Do not think what you say absolves you, Horse-master. Your words are a shallow repentance!"

"A shallow repentance?" Éomer replied, his face broken in hurt and anger. "Do you think I do not regret, Master Dwarf? Do you think I feel no shame, no sorrow? It was I who led that foolish campaign! It was I who insisted the land was feasible for defense! It was I who laid upon him a command when he so clearly suffered a malady! Do you believe me such a monster as to feel not guilt and torment? I wished for nothing more than to somehow save him! I wish…" The king's voice failed him, hitching in his throat, twisting with anguish. Faramir turned away as if struck. Éomer's glazed eyes lost their focus, his mouth limply open as he fought to find words enough to express the depths of his distress. "I only wish that it did not have to end like this."

His whisper hung on the still air, and Gimli's eyes softened. The fiery expression abandoned his face, leaving his eyes suddenly teary and his jaw slack. The Dwarf released a long breath and sank down into his chair. He suddenly seemed very small and weak. Faramir felt something inside him begin to throb. "Gimli, my friend," he said softly, grasping the other on the shoulder. The Dwarf turned to gaze upon him, but his dark eyes were empty of life, empty of heart. "We must let this go." Faramir struggled to keep his voice calm and steady, though inside his spirit was raging against what he meant to do. "There can be no hope now. You saw the wounds. You saw what they did to him. My heart breaks for what I… for my failure. I burn inside at my negligence, at my terrible stupidity, at the crime I have done us all with my shortsightedness. But this cannot go on. We cannot allow it to continue." The Dwarf looked away, agonized by the words. "Help me to speak with Aragorn. Help me to convince him to honor Legolas' death."

"No." But it was not Gimli who spoke this cold word. Faramir turned in his chair, standing quickly, shocked by the sudden interruption. Aragorn stood at the entrance of the room, his face firm, his gray eyes steely. He looked upon Faramir, and the steward felt utterly wretched then for the betrayal he found in his liege's glare.

It was only his vow to Ioreth that drove him now. "My Lord–" he began.

Aragorn stepped closer. "I will not hear your reasons. They will not be good enough."

Anger burned through Faramir. Aragorn's gaze was smoldering, glowing furiously in the dying daylight. His face was dark and menacing. But Faramir would not be so easily dissuaded. He held tight to his cause, to the belief that, as painful as this moment would be, eventually this would bring about healing for Aragorn and all of Minas Tirith. He tried not to realize that these noble intentions were not so pure, that selfishly he yearned for the peace and resolution a memorial might bring him. "Listen to me, Aragorn. You cannot go on like this. It is over."

"It is not!" the man snapped angrily. His eyes were outlined in dark, heavy circles of weariness that suggested many sleepless nights. His face seemed gaunt, hollowed by misery that ailed him like a poison.

Faramir stepped closer and grabbed his lord's arm. "We cannot bring him back! We cannot erase what was done! He is dead." He held Aragorn's gaze, refusing to allow the man's temper to deny his nation what it so sorely needed: closure. "There was nothing you could have done to save him."

"Silence!" roared Aragorn, yanking his arm away from Faramir's grip as though it had suddenly burned him. "You have no right to speak of it! What do you know of it, Faramir, son of Denethor? You have only failed! I asked you to protect him, to bring him back safely! What could you know of what I feel? He sensed this danger. He begged me to believe him, but I refused to listen! He was my friend, my  _brother_ , and I ignored him! He bore a fate that should have been mine! What could you know of it, Faramir? Do not presume to tell me what is right when you do not understand!"

The room grew quiet. Shock and despair made the air cold and terrible upon the skin. Rage like little he had before experienced burst within Faramir, battering against the walls of his composure, and he found he no longer had the restraint to look upon the fuming king.  _What would I know of it, Aragorn, son of Arathorn? More than you can imagine. More than you want to know._  Though the pain from Boromir's death only augmented his turmoil, he did not force it down. Somehow it made him feel stronger, more worthy of this task he had assumed. He resented Aragorn for his arrogance, for his assumptions.  _Others suffer beside you. I will make you see it, even if your guilt blinds you!_  "I do understand," he said softly, struggling vehemently to keep the spite from crawling into his voice. A burning fire craved additional fuel, and he was not about to give Aragorn further cause for his rage. He knew well the temperament of the other. Aragorn was wise and strong. Given enough time, he would realize the folly of hastily spoken words.

He found after a moment he had been right. The king's malevolent expression fell away, revealing a tortured spirit searching desperately for comprehension, for absolution. For the comfort of a lost companion. Guilt shone in the king's now teary gaze. "I…" he whispered, faltering. "I am sorry, Faramir. I did not mean…"

"Do not apologize, my Lord," the steward said, shaking his head to the prospect, "but merely hear my words. The nation suffers the grief of  _all_  that was lost. We must permit the people a chance to mend. Gondor bleeds, Aragorn. The hands of the king are the hands of a healer. Let your hands help your nation."

Aragorn did not respond to Faramir's imploration, but the steward knew his words had reached him. The man's eyes were sullen but not without understanding. The two men held each other's gazes for a moment, neither speaking, neither abandoning the moment to fate or chance. Faramir could see the war within his friend, hope and acceptance battling against each other for supremacy. Emotion swirled in a violent tempest of conflicting feelings and inclinations. Faramir doubted Aragorn would now suddenly come to understand how to best his sorrow. He knew the other could not so simply parse his mess of thought and emotion into controllable and distinct sensations. Such peace was long in coming.

But he finally nodded. It would be enough for now to know Aragorn was at least considering letting Legolas go. Faramir would not press the matter further, no matter its importance. These hours were wrought with exhaustion and dulled euphoria. Aragorn was likely as muddled as he when it came to this night. Victory had come to them, but at such a hefty price that neither delight nor despair could dominate. Exhaustion denied comfort, and idly Faramir knew that, with sleep, things would appear more sensible.

The king wearily took a seat about the polished table. He glanced around, his eyes dulled and almost meek as he scanned the faces of those present. Gimli returned his gaze, and Faramir was relieved that the unbearable tension that had existed between the two friends had at least momentarily abated. Éomer was more reluctant to face the king, though, his gaze centered upon his folded hands as though he had never before seen something so interesting. Silence reigned a moment longer, the fire crackling loudly when they did not speak, the echoes of harsh words and unsaid misery deafening in their emptiness. Then Aragorn lifted his head and sighed, pulling himself from sad thoughts with visibly great effort. "Tell me of Emyn Arnen."

The prospect of business was welcomed, for though it was not as far removed from the topic of war as they might have liked, it something with which cold apathy was possible. Detachment was a convenient shield against the pressing shadow. Éomer cleared his throat softly and managed to summon forth enough courage to talk of the event. "It went smoothly. There was little incident."

 _Little incident._  Suddenly Faramir recalled the strange moment he had had with Holis on the road through Ithilien. The recollection brought with it renewed confusion and apprehension, and he questioned again the nature of the occurrence. His eyes grew dazed as he wondered about it, not at all amazed that, given the shock of all that had happened, it had completely slipped his mind. Briefly he wondered about telling Aragorn of the matter. Certainly it was important that the king be aware of the sort of person with which they were dealing. He flushed with shame and anger when he remembered his inability to best Holis at that silly contest of wills. He had surely revealed far too sensitive information, and Aragorn needed to know that their secrecy was compromised.

But he decided not to broach the subject at the moment. Éomer was already speaking of the campaign's success, and in talking of their victory, he had returned a bit of optimism to the beaten group. Also, Faramir was still not certain that his peculiar exchange with Holis amounted to anything substantial. Doubtlessly the man remained an enigma, and as to his intentions, the steward knew no more of them than he did before. Faramir shuddered inwardly at the ghostly recollection of the man's fingers touching his face. If he meant to do them harm, the opportunities had often presented themselves. It seemed he truly meant to aid Gondor in her quest, and yet…

"Faramir?"

He snapped from his thoughts with a physical jerk, turning stunned eyes to Aragorn. The king was watching him, concern flashing in irritated eyes, and Faramir then realized he had not heard the question asked of him. "I am sorry," he murmured apologetically, heat coming to his cheeks. "My mind escaped me."

Aragorn opened his mouth to oblige the steward in repeating the inquiry, but his question was interrupted by a sharp knock to the room's closed door. Looks of confused surprise were shared at the sound. Before any of them could rise and answer the call, the door opened with a whine of the hinges. "My Lord?" came a tentative voice. As the portal opened, a thin, dark-haired Elf appeared. Faramir recognized him to be Legolas' aid, Velathir. The creature's face was calm, his eyes forlorn, as he regarded the lords. "The escorts Lord Valandil dispatched have returned, and Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond Peredhil, are now here to see you."

 _Elladan and Elrohir._  Éomer darted a questioning look to Faramir, and the steward only released a long breath in response. He had only once before met the twin sons of Lord Elrond, the brothers of Arwen. He knew little of them aside that they were wise and powerful. For many years had they been the allies of the Northern Dúnedain, and they had accepted young Aragorn in Rivendell upon his parents' passing. After their father's departure from Middle Earth and their sister's marriage to Aragorn, they had opted to remain with the rangers, traveling and aiding the provinces of Arnor. The steward wracked his sluggish brain for more information, but there was nothing more really to be had. Legolas had mentioned the brothers once or twice in the past, mostly in friendly conversation. Long had the Prince of Mirkwood and the sons of Elrond been allied in thought, act, and mischief, it seemed, though Faramir had never heard many of the juicier tales of their past foolery.

Aragorn stood, his question apparently forgotten, his face broken with intense relief. The sudden action yanked Faramir from his thoughts again, and he rose respectfully as the two Eldar entered the small meeting room. They were both very tall and lithe, as was the characteristic of their kind, their dark hair pulled back into warrior's braids. Few could tell them apart easily, for they bore much resemblance to both each other and their father. Even after encountering the two Elves on a few occasions, he still found himself unable to distinguish between the twins. Giving it a second of hard thought, the differentiating points returned to him. Elladan had entered first, and he was the louder of the two, his jaw set a bit more firmly. His face was stern and forbidding when the occasion required such a countenance of him, but he was far from humorless, gifted with a musical laugh and voice. Elrohir's features were somewhat softer. His eyes were a bit lighter, and he lacked his brother's commanding air. His voice was soft and serious, but when he smiled, he most reminded Faramir of the Lady Arwen.

The king stepped to them, eagerly embracing both of his friends. A few words were shared in Elvish, but they had been soft and private, and Faramir had not heard them. On the last occasion he had met these two Elves, much time had been spent in merriment with good food, friends, and wine. The carefree smiles and glowing happiness that had so graced their fair faces were now painfully absent.

Elrohir turned, parting from Aragorn's hug, his bright eyes quickly scanning the room. A horrified look came to his face. "Please, Estel, tell me we are not too late to help," he murmured, aghast of the situation. When his piercing gaze fell to Faramir, the steward felt himself shaking his head numbly. Then the Elf lord dropped his eyes, his shoulders visibly slumping. "Ai, Elbereth… I am sorry… We were far north, and by the time we received your missive…" He trailed off, unable to finish his excuse.

Gimli was suddenly livid. Faramir felt the Dwarf stiffen in rage beside him, and he dropped his hand to the short creature's shoulder to restrain the biting retort he knew to be slipping from the other's sharp tongue. The man felt his companion growl, the rumble vibrating his fingers slightly.

Elladan was less ready to accept the truth of it, it seemed, for though his face was stoic and his elegant body was still, Faramir saw the anger flit across his eyes. "And you tried everything? There is not something we still might–"

A forlorn gesture from Aragorn ended the fruitless statement. The king shook his head. He had lost some of his strength in the face of his close friends, his composure crumbling with the need for consolation. He wavered slightly on his feet, leaning against the table as he turned his face away. Silence came over them, thick and tense, and then Aragorn slammed his fist loudly into the table. It seemed to rattle the very room. Whispered words fled his lips, and though his back was to him, Faramir understood the Elvish this time. "This is worth nothing without you!"

Elladan's voice resounded again, frantic with the need to refute, with the hope to deny. "How can this be possible? The Easterlings were no match for Gondor! The Dúnedain knew of no such threat, and surely they would have had some knowledge of a force so strong and potent." The Elf was fiery, the calm fading as he warred with the reality of the terrible news. "I refuse to accept this! They could not have done this to him, to you!"

Éomer's face was the picture of malice, his scowl dark and threatening. "They did," he hissed furiously. "They murdered and maimed. They raped and pillaged. They were a cunning lot, but we have seen to their destruction." The young king turned eyes to Faramir, seeking a proud confirmation. "We tricked them at Emyn Arnen. Long had they used their devilry against us, but we plotted a ruse there, and they fell into our trap."

Something suddenly occurred to Faramir. Like the altercation with Holis, this had previously been ignored, sacrificed by attention for more pressing matters. The mention of plots and ploys dragged forth the question from the recesses of his cluttered mind, and cold anxiety claimed his body. "Gimli," he said quietly, "do you remember that tunnel beneath Emyn Arnen? It began in a wine cellar and stretched some half a league west of the manor. You told me of it a few months ago."

The nature of the soft question stunned the once raging room into an awkward silence. The Dwarf's brow was furrowed in confusion, his eyes quizzical. "Aye," he answered, shaking his head slightly. "What of it?"

The pieces were coming together. The mists of exhaustion, euphoria, and despair parted, and something came through the pall with screaming insistence. Faramir grabbed at it blindly, not overly certain of what it was but knowing beyond a doubt that it was imperative. "That was how the Easterlings breached the compound. That was how they invaded. We expelled their attack and mounted an offense upon their camp only because I remembered what you had said of it." The daze broke, and his eyes suddenly became frantic. "Only you knew of it?"

The words were harsh with pressing urgency and importance. The Dwarf nearly stumbled over his response. "Nay," Gimli murmured, his puzzled eyes searching Faramir for comprehension. "Legolas knew of it. He saw it, in fact. He and his aide assisted me in catalog…"

His aide.

_Velathir._

Faramir's heart stopped as he looked up, shock and horror washing him cold like ice water. In its wake, rage followed like a wildfire, consuming in a shaking breath, and he turned glaring, narrowed eyes upon the villain. Velathir froze from where he stood aside from the door, the color draining from an already pale face. The Elf bolted.

But Aragorn was faster. He was at the door before the other had even touched it, slamming shut the slab and standing protectively in front of it. He turned violent eyes upon Velathir, his form stiff and tense. Perhaps there was still a shred of hesitation, of hope that what had just come to light had not been true. This tiny wish that such an atrocity could not be possible drove Aragorn in questioning. The king's voice was even, but it was clear only great effort allowed it to be so. "Speak, Velathir, and do so quickly and truthfully." Aragorn shook his head in disbelief. "Tell me that an Elf has not betrayed us."

Velathir stood absolutely still. His face was apathetic, and he did not appear to even breathe as Aragorn's scrutinizing glare bore into him. "I have done no such thing," he declared in a cool voice. Faramir was quite surprised at the Elf's sudden gall. He had always struck the steward as a rather weak specimen, void of emotion and lacking of courage. Quiet and pristine, he had seemed a meek creature. He would have never thought to question the loyalty of this Elf.

Aragorn did more than doubt his allegiance, though. The king had no patience for lies, for he grabbed the Elf's blue jerkin and shoved him roughly against the wall. He resembled more a wraith, lusting for the sweetness of vengeance, as his fists tangled tightly in the fabric. Velathir struck the wall with a thud, the aide's slender hands coming to grab Aragorn's as the merciless king pushed him tightly against the surface. "The truth, Velathir! I will have it now!"

The first flicker of fear shown in the Elf's eyes, for Aragorn was more a fuming monster than a man at that moment. Hesitation and fright rendered Velathir mute for another terribly long moment, and Aragorn's temper denied the king any restraint. Faramir winced as Velathir was slammed again into the wall, and the steward stepped forward quickly, thinking to stop Aragorn in this rancorous abuse. Gimli was quick to grab his arm and hold him back.

The third jostling of the Elf resulted in an article falling loose from the folds of Velathir's tunic. It glinted brightly for a split second as it tumbled. Then it struck the stone floor with a clank and a loud shatter.

Silence.

Velathir blanched. He was terrified.

Aragorn watched Velathir's pale, quivering face, his own expression softening in confusion. With seemingly great effort, he released his crushing grip upon the Elf's tunic. The king crouched. The table obstructed Faramir's view, and the ranger glanced at Éomer in the moment, wondering frantically if the other had a better understanding of what was happening. The young King of Rohan, however, was taut with anger and alarm. Elladan and Elrohir watched, each ashen at observing both the fact of this Elf's apparent duplicity and Aragorn's ire.

Glass tinkled. Aragorn rose slowly, lifting with him the remains of what appeared to be a small vial. He held the bottom half carefully between his forefinger and thumb, raising it into the light of the fireplace. Faramir squinted, trying to make sense of the object, bewildered at its purpose. Black liquid dribbled from the jagged edge, tumbling drop by drop into the shadows about the floor. It glowed hideously in the yellow illumination. Menacingly. Violently.

The king fingered the dark substance, his eyes narrowed, his face locked in an expression of confusion. Slowly the tense look became one of shock and horror. Aragorn's breath hitched audibly in his throat as he shuddered, his mouth coming to hang open limply. Tears filled the king's eyes as he looked up, blankly staring at Faramir. The steward shook his head, desperate to understand but finding no words to ask the question.

The glass slipped from Aragorn's fingers and smashed against the floor again.

Gimli could bear it no longer. "What? What is it?"

Short gasps filled the air, pulsing with hysteria. Aragorn's eyes were wide with anguish, his composure utterly shattered, his body visibly quivering with rage. Faramir's mind was slothful given his own alarm and ire. As if suddenly struck, the steward choked on his breath. His face grew ashen, glistening in an abrupt cold sweat, and he nearly doubled-over. His heart stopped. His mind halted. His breath came no more.

He understood. For the love of everything good, he understood!

"You monster!" howled Aragorn. The king broke from his stupor and rounded on Velathir. The man let loose a keening wail as he struck the terrified Elf, and Velathir stumbled along the wall, falling under the assault. "You vile monster! You… How could you?  _How could you?_ "

There was nothing beyond this moment, this confrontation. If any motivation to aid either party entered his stunned mind, it never reached his heavy, limp legs. His body was alien and unresponsive, and he stood, completely paralyzed by the feeling of black, reeking mud covering his useless form. He watched as Aragorn growled inhumanly, reaching down and yanking up the terrified Elf by his tunic once more. He had never seen his friend so utterly violent, so hateful. He seemed more a demon twisted and tormented than anything.

Aragorn shoved Velathir against the wall roughly and wrapped his large hand about the pale column of the Elf's neck. He was applying just enough pressure to threaten, not enough to choke, strangle, or prevent speech. "He was your lord, your leader. He was your friend! How dare you betray him like this?" Velathir's previously dispassionate eyes were now wide and frantic. He was fearful for his life, and that concern was probably not without reason. Faramir wondered just how much longer Aragorn's breaking restraint would last. "You  _will_  tell me, or I will make you regret it!"

The pure hate seeping from that hissed threat was enough to loosen Velathir's lips, and the Elf began to stammer the truth. Each word stabbed into Faramir until the man thought he could take no more. "I did not mean to hurt him! You must believe me. I never meant to hurt him! I did not know it would come to this… please, know that and have pity upon me!"

Aragorn's fingers tightened cruelly, and Velathir gagged, his long face grimacing with the restriction upon his airway. "Why?" rasped the king.

Quivering in a desperate need for escape, the Elf babbled, the statements coming faster and faster from his lips, slurring together with his panic. "He was defying our fate! He was changing what should not be changed! Our kind was meant to leave these shores, to travel to our rightful place in Valinor… and he forsook that for… for… for you! And a Dwarf! What gave him the right to make such a choice for all the Firstborn? He had no power to dictate our future! He took it upon us all to reconstruct a world that did not belong to us, and in doing so he denied us our blessed destiny!"

 _Ai, no… This is not true. Please, make this not true!_  Éomer's voice was hindered by short, fast breaths. "Are you implying that you betrayed us because Prince Legolas formed the colony?"

Velathir glanced to the King of Rohan, his eyes wide and watering. "They approached me. They said no harm would come to him, and that, in the end, if I aided, he would despise this hateful world and finally succumb to the sea-longing. Without him, the colony would fall apart! My kin would finally see reason to leave, and there would be peace…" The frantic Elf turned his eyes upon Aragorn again, the blue orbs shining with fearful tears. His long fingers were wrapped around the king's tight hands as he struggled to wriggle free. "Please, my Lord, you must believe that I never knew he would–"

But Aragorn would not be so easily placated. "Never knew?" he interrupted, his voice low and dangerous. "How could you not? You poisoned him! For how long did you torture him? Days?" Velathir was silent with his fear.  _"Weeks?"_  Aragorn bellowed, tears building in his flaring eyes with the thought of it. Faramir nearly turned away, unable to stand this torment, unable to bear the depths of this treachery. It reached into his soul and scraped and ripped, leaving him shaking with fury and misery.  _How could this have happened? How could we have let this happen?_

"You were the reason he could not sleep! You were the nightmare that stole his rest, that twisted his dreams into torment, that forced upon him…" Aragorn's tone faltered, and the king nearly choked on a sob. "You drugged his food, did you not? He bled because of that toxin! He suffered because of what you did! He dreamed…" The king shook his head and released a keening wail of fury. "You lie to me! You knew! How could you not have seen the sickness you put upon him? You were the reason he fell! You might as well have brought him down yourself, you bloody murderer! Monster!  _Demon!_ "

Flesh struck flesh with a loud crack, and then Velathir was sprawled against the table. The structure shook with the impact. There was the singing of metal, and a glint shone viciously in the golden light. Aragorn brandished the dagger he had drawn from his boot like it might make right this terrible wrong, like it could somehow restore justice. As thought blood would ease his pain. The sight of the king rounding on the hapless Elf broke Faramir from his stupor. Aragorn pinned Velathir to the tabletop, and the knife sang a melody of murder as it slashed down.

Faramir shouted, "No!" He acted without thinking, springing forth with energy he thought lost to his leaden body. Reflexes snapped, and he grabbed Aragorn's wrist and yanked back with every bit of his strength, digging his heels into the floor for balance. The knife screamed, blinding and brutal.

All was still.

The sharp tip of the deadly blade hovered above Velathir's gasping neck. Aragorn's jaw clenched and unclenched as he watched the glinting edge hover. His hand shook with the restraining hold of Faramir's fingers wrapped tightly about his wrist. The steward gasped, struggling to calm his racing heart, disbelief and relief leaving him shaken and weakened. The fury abated in Aragorn's eyes, he saw, as that long, torturous minute escaped them. They remained as such a moment more, the knife nearly grazing the Elf's vital flesh. Velathir whispered fearfully, "You would kill a Firstborn, my King?"

Rage could not bolster the cold fact of it. Aragorn slowly leaned back, his steely eyes never leaving Velathir's tear-stricken face. Faramir pulled away, watching his friend doubtfully, wondering at the thoughts stampeding through the other's mind. "You are an Elf no more," stated Aragorn icily after a painful pause. The blade dropped to the king's side and he looked away. "Even so, I will not kill you. You will be made to pay. Death is too lenient a punishment for your crimes against your people!"

Velathir's eyes widened, and he opened shaking lips as if to speak further. Aragorn, however, was beyond listening. Faramir watched as he turned to door. Guards had come, though he had not noticed in the disastrous events, and they now stood, stupefied and bewildered. "Take this wretch to the dungeon. He will remain there until I decide what is to be done with him. Make sure he is not harmed."

Faramir could scarcely breathe his heart rushed so frantically in relief. His skin felt cold, and sweat clung to his scalp. He could not imagine the future that would have been made of Aragorn's murder of the Elf. He shuddered. He did not want to. The king would have forever hated himself for an act made in a fit of fury and grief. The blood could have never been washed from his hands. Vengeance would not have been cause enough.

The guards came in, finally freeing themselves from their dumb stares. They grabbed the arms of the treacherous Elf and hauled him less than gently from the table. Velathir stumbled as they led him from the room, his head hung shamefully and fearfully as if at any moment he expected Aragorn to change his mind over the sparing of his life. Faramir glared upon the traitor as he was pulled out the door.  _Legolas… If I had only known! If I had only seen this before!_

In the wake they stood. Each was stiff and still, burdened by this knowledge, crushed by the reality of what had truly happened. Silence devoured what remained of their elation, committing them to an endless eternity of suffering, of doubt. There would never be acceptance. There would never be absolution.

The knife slipped from Aragorn's hand and struck the floor with a heavy clang. He turned, his face lowered, his form dark and malignant. A single tear escaped his cold eyes, snaking its way down his face. Not a word was said. Not a breath was heard. Offering his friends nothing, the king turned and left.

Faramir stood still a long time. There might have been action around him, but he could not hear. He could not see. He was so traumatized that suddenly one thought was the only viable action.  _I must escape. I must sleep._

Perhaps tomorrow would yield closure. Perhaps the sun would drive back the shadows again. Whether or not such a thing was possible, he did not know. He was not sure of anything anymore, save that something pure had died. Something had changed, and it could not be brought back to the way it had been.

Indeed, it was over.


	23. From the Ashes

The morning was bright, but the afternoon threatened foul weather. There was no sign of it now, but Faramir had an intimation of a cold, windy deluge. Cool breezes pushed through the open windows, caressing his skin with icy fingers. The air hung heavily about him, smelling crisp and distinctly of rain, and he watched the sky doubtfully. After trudging in a freezing downpour through Ithilien a few days ago, he had no desire to experience another drenching torrent.

"I hate rain." The disdainful grumble came from beside him. Éomer's eyes were narrowed contemptuously; it was evident that he as well was remembering the unpleasant journey to Emyn Arnen. The young man paused for a moment, and then sighed. "Perhaps it will come this eve and spare the afternoon's events." Despite the seriousness of the moment, Faramir smiled. It was hardly as if a little rain would not better set the mood for the activities that day.

The two lords stood in the busy corridors of the king's quarters. Where they were, in a small, lushly furnished antechamber in which their liege typically greeted early guests and attendants, they were generally safe from the bustle about them. Only two days had passed since their victory, and in that time it seemed to Faramir too much and yet too little had happened. Gondor's recovery was gradually quickening, the nation rising from the pall of despair to regain its lost pride and dignity. Its guard was not completely abandoned, though the chance of further attack seemed more remote with each hour spent in safety. Although Fallax cared little for leniency, it had been granted to him as an incentive for truthful information. It seemed the Easterlings had suffered heavier losses than Gondor had originally anticipated at Emyn Nimsîr. Their ill-fated attack on Emyn Arnen had been a desperate strike. Apparently they had assumed Gondor would not dare strike at them, given their significant defeat at Emyn Nimsîr. This had been the fundamental error in the Easterlings' reasoning, and Faramir had been glad to learn that Gimli's somewhat rash logic had indeed proven to be true.

However, they had managed to extract little more than this from the obstinate man. The motives of their enemy remained a mystery, though it was the general consensus among the lords and common folk alike that they had only wished to see Gondor's destruction. Ancient hatreds and festering prejudices died hard. Though such a rationale was hardly comforting or even satisfying, it would have to suffice. Their prisoners offered nothing else. In the peace of the Fourth Age, when war had thankfully become a distant memory, such reckless and barbaric mindsets were an unwanted threat. If nothing else, these last few painful weeks had been haunting reminders that nothing was sacred and even the most pleasant of utopias could morph quickly from a tranquil paradise into a terrible and horrific nightmare. It was a frightening affirmation of evil's continued perseverance despite all they had done to destroy it.

Pondering such doubts was a task better left to stronger times when morale could withstand depressing epiphanies. Though the now busy city streets still hummed and buzzed with rumor, gossip, and much relieved talk, hope had came back to the denizens of the White City. Their faith in their lords had not failed them. Their nation had remained strong and good. Minas Tirith, the heart of Gondor, had not been touched.

The Southron army, its size savagely reduced, had retreated further from the city proper. Under Holis' direction, the men had shifted their camp farther east in the fields, their red banners still flying proud and high over the Pelennor. It might have once been disturbing to see such a large army stationed so closely to Minas Tirith, but days of their presence had dulled the grotesque peculiarity of it. Though a certain amount of distrust still hovered over the houses, the people had generally begun to accept the proximity of the Haradrim. Should the Easterlings that remained free unwisely choose to attack the White City, Holis had assured them that his forces would be the blockade about the area through which the attackers would need to pass. Regardless of the man's enigmatic disposition, his word had thus far proved true and noble. He had done what he had promised. He had helped protect Gondor.

And it was this terrible paradox that plagued Faramir now as it had for the past days. The weary steward had tried to keep such worries from his head, concentrating on idle tasks to divert his attention from matters that distressed him. There was business with which he contended, of course, the simple issues whose care was often a requirement for a man of his station. He had seen to his people; the refugees from Ithilien, both man and Elf alike, crowded the inns and boarding houses of Minas Tirith. The keepers had been instructed to allow these people to stay without charge, and most, seeing the state of emergency brought by war, agreed easily enough. His people were worried but well, and they had looked to him for assurance that they would soon be able to return to their homes. Faramir was reluctant to permit them the journey to Emyn Arnen until they could be absolutely certain the Easterlings would not again make victims of unsuspecting innocents. Perhaps this was a thought borne from paranoia, as there was no indication they had the strength to even imagine such an attack. Still, they had proven to be clever and deceitful before, and Faramir was not willing to take such a chance.

The Elves, of course, were the most destroyed of them all. They were now without a leader, and though they were stoic and proud creatures, Faramir knew the loss of Legolas had struck them harder than any saw. The Elf prince had once told him many days ago that he hardly counted himself a puissant lord, but it was clear now that his people considered him that and more. They had revered him as a prince and as a hero. He had been their strength, their focus in Middle Earth, their friend. Without him, they were lost, and Faramir's heart throbbed for their anguish. More distressing yet was the news of Velathir's apparent duplicity. It had shocked the entire colony that one of their own, friend to some, family to others, could do such a terrible thing as betray their beloved lord. The shock alone had been brutal. As to their leadership, the vacant position had yet to be filled. None seemed willing to assume a title that did not belong to him. The colony had readily followed the undeclared lead of Valandil, and Faramir immediately understood why. The young warrior from Rivendell was compassionate and strong. At Cair Andros, Emyn Nimsîr, and Emyn Arnen he had proven himself most worthy of esteem. He was not Legolas, and he did not try to be. Faramir noted the sadness about the Elf. The remains of a hopeful friendship lay in bleeding tatters about him. It was more than obvious Valandil had idolized Legolas. He was symbolic of the colony's shattered dreams, of their dying intentions. They had never dreamt their lord could be taken from them. Legolas had survived so many battles. Despite his youth, his skills in war craft were unmatched, legendary. To their reeling minds, this terrible torture was but a nightmare that was only now showing itself to be dreadfully true.

The Firstborn walked as ghosts. The appearance of Elladan and Elrohir had both heartened and discouraged them. Though Aragorn had not said as much, the sons of Elrond assumed a position of authority over the beaten colony. Neither of them seemed overly thrilled with the prospect. They had mentioned to Faramir that it felt like they were staining Legolas' memory by assuming a role not meant for them, as though they were pushing the Elves onward and denying them time to grieve their lost lord. Faramir sympathized with their fears. It was no easy task to fill a station made vacant by the sudden death of a loved one.

Such things aside, he had done all he could to assure the Elves their comfort. Minas Tirith was crowded and congested with people and activity. Not only had the population size increased dramatically in the years since the War of the Ring, housed as well within the walls of the city were soldiers from all over Gondor. There were hundreds of troops from Dol Amroth, the Riders of Rohan, the Elves of Ithilien, refugees from Emyn Arnen… even a legion of Dwarven warriors from the Glittering Caves. The city was crowded with creatures of all races and creeds, filled with beings serving a common cause: protecting the nation of men. While the sheer size of the force that had come together for the sake of the nation was amazing and inspiring, it was not without its drawbacks. There was no shortage of food, for Minas Tirith was quite prosperous, her agriculture made strong by bountiful lands and prolific farmers. Housing, however, was a different matter. The barracks for Minas Tirith's now swollen army were well beyond their capacity. Moreover, though there was enough sustenance for their many guests, finding means to ensure that all were properly fed was not so simple.

These were the sorts of tasks with which Faramir had busied himself over the last days. Hardly paramount, the mundane chores were suitable to divert his attention, to consume his mind and hands so that neither was left to idle action or contemplation. Pondering his doubts, fears, and anger left him terribly tormented, and he was tired of not being able to answer the crucial questions posed by his thoughts. Though he thought this reason alone terribly selfish, there were other points in his involvement in routine problems and work. Most prevalent and disturbing of these was, of course, Aragorn's seclusion. For two days since the company's triumphant return from Emyn Arnen, the king had not left his quarters. Silence replaced strength, and the tension placed upon the Citadel by Aragorn's unvoiced grief and fury was twisting whatever remained of its peace. It was a chilling sensation, for the air verily closed about the body, bending and pulling as though at any moment it might simply snap. Tenuous was the serenity, their hopes thin and emaciated. Their lord's absence was striking and powerful, and each man, from the lowest servant to the highest courtier, understood the sorrow and malice that permeated their home.

Though Faramir had been extremely worried over Aragorn's isolation, he had not been able to find it within himself to face his king again after that horrid night. In truth, the nation needed its leader. He should not have allowed Aragorn to continue such behavior as long as he had, but he had been unwilling to intercede with such lame reasons as responsibility and honor. Duty paled in comparison with the depths of the king's misery, and that anguish was something with which Faramir had not wished to contend. He had spent the last days concerned over the deteriorating situation, afraid for Gondor, afraid for Aragorn, afraid for what this could become if his friend could not surmount this loss.

Thankfully, Aragorn had emerged of his own accord. He had appeared last night during dinner, assuming his recently vacant place at the head of the long, shining table after helping his queen to her chair. A collective sigh of relief and amazement had resounded throughout the gathering at seeing their lord. The king had appeared haggard and worn, hardly resembling at all the violent wrath that had nearly murdered. The joy Faramir had felt at seeing his comrade free himself from his grief had faded quickly, though, when Aragorn had begun to speak.  _"The peace treaty will be ratified on the morrow. We will remember those of Cair Andros and Linhir whose lives were savagely ended. As well will we honor all, man and Elf, who died protecting our nation. Let us invite the Haradrim into our home to partake in this celebration. See that all the necessary preparations are made."_  Aragorn had sighed and looked down, as if struggling to maintain his resolve.  _"If this is to be an era of peace between our two nations, let us begin it by mourning our heroes together."_  He had spoke no more of the matter after that, and the subject, whether from shock, anger, or doubt, was not again broached. Faramir had sat silently for the remainder of the meal, his thoughts dark and distressing. One pressing worry had simply been traded for another.

That night he had spoken to Éowyn of the matter of Holis' true identity. He was not a man generally given to seeking the advice of others, but he found he simply could not decide the best course of action. His logic was muddled by much emotion, and the knowledge he had so vehemently wished might never become important he could no longer bear to keep silent. His wife had held him as he had spoke of the perturbing exchange between himself and the emperor. She had remained quiet, reserving any judgment, until he had completely finished his unnerving tale. And when he had been done, she had only asked him to not let his shame hamper his duty. These facts were too important for Aragorn not to know them and account for them in his plans. Most reassuring of all, though, was the fact that she did not think less of him for his foolery in participating in Holis' silly contest. That alone had been enough to grant him strength to face his king.

So now he waited. He had risen with the dawn, sleeping little during the course of the night as torn as he was with conflicting thoughts and fears. Dressing quickly, he had left his slumbering wife in bed and seen to his morning duties. Then he had raced to the king's quarters, hoping to speak with Aragorn before any further decisions regarding this treaty were made.

Éomer sighed again. "I do not like this day," commented the king lowly. Faramir glanced to the younger man out of the corner of his eye, wondering at Éomer's rather grumpy mood this morning. Surely it was early, and of late few in Minas Tirith had been of a consistently pleasant disposition. Since he had encountered the other that morning in the courtyard, which was being cleaned and adorned for the day's events, Éomer had done naught but complain.  _Perhaps he feels as ill about this whole mess as I do._  The young king's eyes were narrowed, his arms folded sternly across his broad chest. "There is more to this than we can see, Faramir. I am sure of it."

The steward had not told his brother-in-law of Holis' words, though not for lack of trust had he made this decision. Despite their interrogation of Fallax, they had not been able to ascertain if spies still lurked about Minas Tirith. The information was far too sensitive to be overheard in a sloppy conversation. Furthermore, he wanted Aragorn's opinion of it first. He knew Éowyn would not speak of their private talk the night before with anyone. Éomer, though, was king, and he had obligations to his own people that outweighed those he held to Gondor's. "I as well am uneasy," he stated simply, wishing not to allude to the true nature of his unrest.

Éomer shook his head, his eyes narrowed and distant with reflection. "That Elf's story does not make sense," said the man disdainfully. "I spoke to Lord Valandil of the matter, and he was frankly surprised. Yet he could not tell me truly that it was implausible that this Elf would do such a thing. Velathir's kin remain in Middle Earth despite his wishes. He plainly believes that removing Legolas would remove the colony's pillar of support, its very foundation. Without him, the Elves would scatter, and many would heed the call of the sea and leave these shores."

"The Easterlings took advantage of that belief," Faramir commented softly, surprised by the calm detachment in his tone. "I doubt there was more to his involvement than that. He was a pawn in their plan, a convenient weakness they exploited. The greater question is why."

Éomer looked to him, raising an eyebrow. "To kill Legolas?"

"Surely. But for what purpose?" Faramir shook his head, turning the problem about once more but finding no loose threads with which he might unravel the tangled knot. "What danger could the Elves have posed to them? Surely striking at you or me would have been a more profitable venture. The fall of either of us would have been a serious blow to Gondor and Rohan. Though the Elves are invaluable fighters and allies, they do not boast the numbers to be a major threat. Why plot so meticulously to rid them of their leader? Do not forget that Velathir had been poisoning Legolas for many days before Cair Andros was even attacked."

Éomer's eyes widened. "Do you suppose," he began in a hushed, rushed whisper, "that they really attacked Emyn Nimsîr to fell him?"

To say the idea had not occurred to him and had not been occurring to him since they had lost Legolas would have been a lie. At the council a few days ago he had proposed as much. Now he was certain of it. Faramir released a slow breath as again the prospect spun about his riled, tired head. Since learning of the extent of the Easterlings' cunning, he had wondered anew at the purpose of their attack upon Emyn Nimsîr. The battle had served no strategic purpose, and they had left the town unharmed after Gondor had retreated. The enemy had suffered far too great a loss to consider the skirmish a victory. The only thing, in fact, that they  _had_  succeeded in doing was bringing Legolas down. Aragorn had conjectured days after that they had perhaps assumed the king would join the war party, and thus the trap would have been set to ensnare and murder him. But Faramir could not believe that logic, despite its promising sense. Everything had been done with a purpose. That fact was more than obvious from Velathir's tale. He could not imagine that their opponents would risk such a horrific loss on a hunch that the King of Gondor  _might_  join the campaign. They were too smart for that. Too careful.

 _It was all done to destroy Legolas. They plotted to kill him weeks, perhaps even months, before they committed the foul deed._  Despite his disgust and anger over this awful fact, he could not for all the want of his heart convince himself otherwise. Even that boy, the dying soldier from Linhir… The memory was hazy, for his pain and sickness at that time had been great, but he remembered the frightening and violent gaze of the mutilated prisoner starkly. Those delving eyes had been dull with delirium and agony, slipping into the haze of death, until Legolas had arrived. Then frenzy had come to them, almost a panic. A dying breath had been spent to warn the Elf of… of what?  _"They can see." What do they see?_  Perhaps… Perhaps it was not what they could see, but what Legolas saw.  _Or would have seen. But what could that have possibly been?_

The steward sighed tiredly. He grew frustrated with these unanswerable questions. Nothing made sense! "I do not know, Éomer. I fear we never might." He did not like the ugly note of defeat in his voice, but he was too worn and confused to mask it with false courage and understanding. "It seems this war has decided to end without yielding us any answers."

Such finality did not sit well with him, the words tasting bitter and cold as he muttered them. Clearly Éomer did not care for it either, as his face was dark and malevolent, frustration and denial glowing hotly in his eyes. What could there be but this insistent refusal of reality? Desperate minds were left to wonder, and frantic, screaming hearts were starved of resolution, of rest. How could they simply accept that they might never understand the reasons behind their friend's death? How could they simply continue and never know why he had been so cruelly taken from them? Faramir was a man of thought and reasoning. He could not stand the prospect of just letting this mystery go unsolved, of living on hampered by their inability to find the truth. Not knowing the reality of it all, no matter how distressing or gruesome, seemed to dishonor Legolas somehow.

There came a voice from behind them. "My Lord Steward?" It was one of Aragorn's servants holding the lavish doors to the inner rooms ajar. "The king will see you now."

Faramir's heart suddenly pulsed in a nervous patter and for a moment his breath would not come. When he regained his faulty composure, he chastised himself for the childish lapse and prayed the weakness had not come to his face. Thankfully, Éomer had not seemed to notice his pallor. His companion grasped his shoulder fondly and parted with a curt nod. Steeling himself with a deep breath, Faramir stood tall and strong as he followed the servant into the chambers.

It was light and airy inside the large room. The doors to the balconies were opened widely to permit the fresh morning breezes entrance. It heartened Faramir. He had expected shadows and sorrow to mark the interior, or at least an atmosphere more fitting for mourning. Perhaps the situation was not as dire as he had originally anticipated.

The Lady Arwen awaited his arrival. She stood in the small antechamber, and the sunlight set her aglow with vibrant beauty. She wore a blue gown of simple design, though upon her slender, enchanting body the simple velvet was made most elegant and regal. Her dark hair was pinned in an elaborate design of braids and curls. Her face was pale and fair, as was characteristic of her kind, and her eyes were a calming, clear blue. Though she appeared entirely placid and peaceful, Faramir could see the hints of weariness about her mouth and upon her brow, and those brilliant orbs were dulled by sorrow.

He bowed to her. "My Queen," he said softly, lowering his eyes respectfully. He was hardly her confidant, and she exuded such a powerful air of gentle control, of tender supremacy, that he found himself often feeling unworthy of gracing her presence. She was ethereal, made of magic and mystery that was beyond him. She was different from other Elves, it seemed, stronger in her essential nature. Only through time and trust had he become acclimated to Legolas' potent aura, and he found that, as Gimli and Aragorn had often expressed, it was easy then to forget that their dear friend was Elf-kind.  _Had been._  He winced.

She smiled weakly. "Good morning, Lord Faramir. The King finishes presently."

They were silent. He looked upon her, wondering at her equanimity. Questions churned in his head, and though he wondered at the decency in addressing these concerns, he found he could not stifle them. "How does he fare?"

Arwen's smile slipped from her face, and her eyes swam in a flash of tears. She offered to Faramir her hand, and he took it slowly. Her skin was smooth and soft beneath his coarse fingers, without even the smallest imperfection. "He fares as we all do. Death… is a terrible torture to one never meant to experience it."

Faramir's heart throbbed at the pain in her words. "I am sorry, my Lady," he said quietly, averting his eyes at the sight of such grief.

She squeezed his hand gently. "Do not apologize. He was my friend as much as he was yours," she declared.

He gave a tiny, rueful grin. "With all due respect, my Lady, that is not true. You lessen your loss by equating it to mine. My relationship with Legolas was but a moment in his life."

Arwen's face grew pale and for a moment the steward believed she might weep. She turned from him then, stepping back into the room with a soft swish of her skirts. Faramir watched the great mass of her hair shift and quiver as she sighed quietly, lowering her head. "My lord suffers, Faramir. He suffers a terrible torment. He and Legolas shared a bond unlike any I had ever before witnessed between a man and an Elf. For many years they acted the brother of one another. They braved many perils together, growing stronger in devotion and affection. To lose Legolas now has crushed him."

Faramir said nothing, aching inside for the friendships destroyed. How cruel war was to create and destroy friendships without regard to the lives left in shambles! The queen's voice was a mere whisper that shook slightly with the force of emotions stifled. "He blames himself for Legolas' fall. He has made mistakes. He ignored warnings given him and dismissed doubt for the sake of duty." Confusion claimed Faramir at this. He had heard no such cautions. Surely if they had been serious concerns Aragorn would have told him. But he did not ask her of the matter. Clearly, whatever had transpired between Aragorn and Arwen was a personal matter, and it was no right of his to intrude upon their privacy.

Arwen spoke again. Her voice was weak, shaking with anguish that she had obviously restrained for the benefit of her distraught husband. "We cannot judge him, for he already passes a terrible verdict upon himself. He believes he has failed his nation, but even more, that he has failed his friends. He believes himself responsible for this war, and nothing I can say will prove to him otherwise." She turned to face him. He expected to see her pale cheeks damp with her misery, but she remained tearless. He could not help but admire her will. She truly was an amazing creature. "I love him dearly, Faramir. I cannot stand to see his guilt destroy him. It tears at him from within, ripping asunder his objectivity, his strength, his very spirit. I… I feel he shall become a slave to its furious whims." She stepped closer to him, her eyes wide and softly imploring. She seemed to stare into his very soul, as though his flesh and blood were transparent substances. She could understand even the most hidden parts of him with a simple observation. While it was unnerving, it was also endearing and somehow pleasant to be held so high in her regard. "Please… you must be at his side. You must guide him now. He falters under the burdens of his rage and sorrow, and he cannot carry as well the weight of leadership. Help him, Faramir. He will not ask for your aid, but I fear… I fear what may become of our nation should you not offer it."

Her wish surprised him, but he did not doubt its veracity or importance. The depthless blue of her eyes was shining brightly, speaking loudly of her terror, of her desperation. It was in that moment that Faramir realized the situation was far grimmer than he had originally feared. He took a slow breath to steady himself.  _She asks this of me because I am the Steward. I am his friend. I must protect him._  He took her hands. "I am fain to aid you, my Lady. I stand beside him."

They were still for a moment, a silent understanding coming between them. Then she planted a light kiss upon his cheek and stepped aside. Faramir watched her disappear into one of the other rooms of the royal quarters. He barely had time to wonder at the enigmatic exchange before Aragorn entered the common area.

It took all of Faramir's will to stifle the pained moan creeping up his throat. The man that stood in front of him seemed so far removed from the proud king he had once known. His person was pristine, his dark hair shining and his gray clothes without wrinkle or crease. But Faramir recognized his regal appearance to be a front for the mess his soul had become. Aragorn's face was ragged and dark. His eyes were outlined in shadows of fatigue and misery, clearly symbolizing the number of nights spent in sleepless torture. They were bloodshot, reflecting within them all the tears shed, all the moments lost to grief and anger. He walked without his normal poise, his steps somehow unsure, his shoulders slumped in painful defeat. He was a shadow.

The steward spent a moment recovering from his displeasure. Aragorn bid him a fair morning, and he mumbled a soft response. His mind was numb as his king picked through a pile of parchments delivered this morning for his approval. Faramir's purpose returned to him with pressing insistence, and he nearly jerked in remembrance. "Aragorn," he said, conjuring all his courage.  _Just say it. You must!_  He sucked in a deep breath to calm his thundering heart. "We must not permit this peace treaty to occur."

The king stopped his shuffling through the papers. He stiffened ever so slightly, the muscles of his back flexing beneath the folds of his surcoat. Silence crawled over the two men, tense and riddled with anger and doubt. Faramir stood so stiffly that he could not breathe. The moment lasted indefinitely, and in it he lingered, waiting for his words to be accepted or rejected, hoping his king would at least hear his reasons. He remembered what Arwen had said about Aragorn's compromised objectivity and grew fearful the other would not even grant him the chance to defend his statement.

That worry, however, proved false and groundless. "Explain," Aragorn said softly, a terse edge coming to his normally steady voice. He turned, abandoning his task to look upon Faramir.

Whatever speech he had conjured while he laid restless the night before disappeared in the face of the actual event. Instead, he simply spoke, the words flowing haltingly. "More happened at Emyn Arnen than I have previously disclosed to you. I had rather hoped the information would prove pointless. Forgive me my ignorance."

The quiet words had the desired effect. Aragorn regarded him with sympathetic, interested eyes. Though the tension did not completely dissolve, its heat was lessened. "What more happened, Faramir?"

Eased by Aragorn's acceptance of the idea, Faramir began to speak. He told the other of his strange conversation with Holis, explaining carefully all he had learned of the emperor's true identity. As he revealed the man as a Lieutenant of Sauron, Aragorn's eyes had grown murderously dark. The king's jaw clenched in fury, and his right hand balled into a fist tight enough to bleed the color from his knuckles. Onward the steward plunged, adding the details of what Holis had said of his intentions and ambitions. He mentioned the man's involvement in the fall of Osgiliath, in Faramir's own wounding. Then he spoke of his own foolishness in telling Holis of Gondor's plans, though now, given that the peace treaty was mere hours away from ratification, his act seemed far less dangerous and upsetting. He spoke of the attack on Éowyn and Holis' valiant interference. He explained his misgivings over the man's shifting moods and personalities, over the utter mystery of why he acted as he did.

When he was finished, Aragorn had turned from him. For a long time, neither of them could break the loud quiet. An intrusive memory came to Faramir in the emptiness. Again he felt the weight of Holis atop him, his body and mind reeling from their fall during the battle. The brush of the man's breath upon his face. The touch of those fingers upon his temple. He shuddered.  _"I will not forget this."_

"Do they mean us harm?" Aragorn asked. The sound of his voice yanked Faramir from the unsettling recollection, returning him with a nauseating jerk to the present conversation. The king pivoted again, meeting his steward's gaze. "Do you believe they mean to entrap us with this treaty somehow?"

Faramir sighed. "I do not know. I have spent many hours contemplating these questions, and I can sadly arrive at no conclusions that satisfy me. My mind deplores the time I have spent doubting them. Holis has done naught but what he has promised. His forces were invaluable at Emyn Nimsîr. If not for his aid at Emyn Arnen…" He could not finish, the sound of Éowyn's piercing scream stealing his breath. He could not even bear the hideous thought. "It would be far too elaborate an act to be feasible. If they meant to destroy us, why not simply besiege the city and have their war?"

Aragorn's eyes were distant. His face was fractured in dismay, torn between memory and reality as well. Faramir waited, anxiety jolting through his body, and watched his king battle his own doubts and dread. "Curse this all," whispered Aragorn, his eyes focusing in a blink and his breath coming as a sharp hiss. "I know not what to do!"

Such admittance did not come easily, especially for a man as proud and independent as Aragorn. Faramir sighed and stepped closer to his liege, seeking to comfort as well as offer any advice he could. Truthfully, he was no more certain than Aragorn of the proper course of action. His soul ached at seeing his king's distress, though, and he would not allow the other to face this torment alone. He had sworn to remain his guardian, his adviser. His friend. "It is hardly any consolation, but I sincerely believe that Holis' interests lie not in simple war. If he desires something of us, it will not come in bloodshed."

"They have lost too much for this to end in betrayal," Aragorn declared.

Therein lay the truth of the situation, perhaps the only fact of which they could be sure. Regardless of what the Haradrim wanted, of what their real intentions might be, they had suffered far too great a loss to make their gain worth it. There were easier ways to destroy Gondor. The men who had died at Emyn Nimsîr would have been better spent in a siege if conquering Minas Tirith was their intention. The city was too well fortified now. Any attack would be quickly and completely crushed.

Holis had kept his word. He had promised Harad would stand beside Gondor, and it had. Without a doubt, it had.

"It is only my heart that cries this warning," said Faramir softly, his expression downcast and his spirits sinking. "For all the want of it, it cannot make my mind agree with its suspicions. I am tired of feeling so confused, so torn." It felt good to confess that weakness for some reason. It was as though a small bit of the burden had been lifted from his weary spirit, and though there was much yet pressing it down, that release was amazingly pleasant. The steward gathered himself, drawing a deep breath. He laid a hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "I follow you, my Lord. I will always be with you, no matter the course of fate."

Aragorn was still a moment more. Faramir watched the emotions flicker in his gray eyes. Then the king sighed softly. He grasped Faramir's arm and said, "The first step in peace is faith. Let us put our hope in this alliance." He smiled weakly. "It was proposed to end a war. Perhaps, one day, it might prevent another."

Faramir nodded.  _Perhaps._

* * *

The Court of the Fountain was a spacious place. It had been constructed to reflect Gondor's might and prosperity, and it achieved that goal magnificently. Polished stone pathways extended from the massive gates to the grand arched entrance to the Citadel. The surrounding grass was expertly and meticulously clipped, and not one loose leaf ever marred the perfectly swept walkways. One road led pedestrians from the gate, and it cleaved in twain in the middle of the yard, curling around the beautifully crafted fountain in the center. The monument was framed by a circular channel of water which surrounded a small platform. The liquid was clear and pure, trickling into the stone trough lightly. It was a clever illusion, for the ground seemed to meet the level of the water, as though the fountain formed a natural river that forever circled this tiny island. Upon the elevated area was the symbol of Gondor's strength, the White Tree. Once it had been a suffering, bent form, twisted with evil and illness. Now it was bright, glowing vibrantly, its ancient magic silently awesome. The vitality of the withering symbol had been restored by Aragorn after the War of the Ring, as the new king had offered a sapling he had found as a replacement to the husk the tree had become. In the years since, it had grown under the loving care of all the nation, the black and silver leaves raised to the sky, the white blossoms filling the air with a sweet perfume. It was truly the triumph of the courtyard, shedding light and love upon all who looked upon it.

Behind the fountain the paths again merged, continuing to the massive entrance to the Citadel. The building wrapped around the yard as well, embracing the airy place with large stone arms. These wings housed the gardeners and groundskeepers. They had also been designed to allow spectators access to the events of the Court, for often in previous years when the blackness of Mordor had not yet so violently choked the nation, activities would be held on this plaza. Grand stone balconies extended from the structures. From them were suspended the banners of Gondor, the black cloth flapping gently in the growing wind. Though the yard was completely enclosed, never did one feel trapped. It was truly palatial in its size, great and open, and above the sky hung over it like a canopy.

Faramir grunted.  _I must amend my opinion,_  the steward thought as he was again jostled by the crowd.  _Even this place can seem small when filled with_  every  _citizen in this city!_  The estimation was quite the exaggeration, but he was in foul enough a mood to let it stand. Everywhere people stood about, chatting loudly, laughing, shouting, even crying. The Citadel Guards had formed a line on either side of the path, blockading the crowed from pushing onto the stone. The gardeners would not be pleased to find their once majestic grass so utterly trampled. Faramir squinted as he pushed through the throng, struggling to think above the din. Outside he could see the Guards stationed at the door, barricading the entrance to prevent the swelling crowd beyond the seventh gate further access. He doubted those that had planned this event had expected such an immeasurable turnout. Merchants, tradesmen, farmers, painters, women and children… All had come to this memorial. Though the ruckus was giving him quite the headache, he was somehow heartened by the enormous assembly. Those that died deserved no less, really.

At the entrance to the Citadel stood many of the Guard at attention. They bore their black uniforms proudly, though their faces were devoid of emotion and their expressions were tense. Watchful eyes ever scanned the crowd, searching for signs of possible danger. Closer to the vaulted foyer were the Lords of Gondor. In their center was Aragorn, dressed regally, his winged crown atop his head. He appeared cold and forbidding as he spoke quietly to Imrahil. At his other side was his wife, and the Lady Arwen was silent and solemn. Éowyn's lips were drawn into a thin line as she waited, her face stoic and her eyes empty. Imrahil's family was also present, Amrothos' wide, young eyes darting about the congregation from beside his father. In attendance as well was Irehadde and many of the king's advisers, obscured from sight as they stood stiffly behind the delegation. All of Gondor's nobility had assembled for this monumental occasion.

Faramir's eyes swept the lines of lords and ladies. He doubted history had ever seen such a group of diverse nations and people coming together. Flying high were the banners of the king and of the steward. Also suspended about the entrance were the standards of Rohan and Dol Amroth, the greens and blues vibrant and proud. On the opposite side waved the flags of the Glittering Caves and Ithilien, the Elves and Dwarves standing in allegiance. Elladan and Elrohir stood side by side with the soldiers from the Elvish colony, their heads bowed respectfully. Yet, with careful observation, Faramir could detect the tension in their lithe bodies. In fact, hanging over the entire area was a thick and smothering apprehension. He supposed it was warranted. After all, a year ago inviting Gondor's most hated enemy so deep into Minas Tirith would have been an act of lunacy.  _Times are changing. Old prejudices die hard._

His gaze caught his wife's, and Éowyn held it a moment. She was quite beautiful this day, her golden hair wrapped into a bun and held in place by the circlet she bore upon her elegant brow. Her rose dress brought color to her otherwise pale face, and she seemed to glow with a brightness all her own that eased his heart to simply behold. He offered her a shy smile, and she returned a weak grin of her own.

The noise was deafening, but a growl from below him still managed to attract his attention. Gimli's eyes were dark as he glanced upward. "The Haradrim ought to hurry," mumbled the despondent Dwarf, "else the rain may beat them here."

As if on cue, a droplet splattered upon Faramir's nose, and he jerked, surprised at the sudden, cold impact. The sky overhead was overcast and gloomy. It hung low, as if weighed down by the rain it bore, the clouds thick and gray. The steward glared at the offensive sight sourly. "Even the sky cries for this day," he murmured quietly.

"What did you say, Faramir?"

He shook his head, pulled from his shadowy thoughts. He grasped the Dwarf on the shoulder as they emerged from the edge of the crowd to stand near the fountain. "Nothing, Master Dwarf. I am sure they will be here shortly." Gimli was tense under his fingers, and Faramir sympathized with his anxiety. This would be no easy task for any of them. As if the prospect of welcoming a once hated and fierce enemy into their midst was not disconcerting enough, it was coupled with the public ritual of mourning those that had died. Of those who had not come back. It would prove a difficult and emotional afternoon. Faramir nearly wished he did not have to be present for this ceremony. Like Gimli, his grief was a private matter. He did not want to share with strangers the depths of his hurt, of his guilt and rage, of his sadness. It seemed somehow inappropriate.

Gimli voiced what he could not. "Legolas would not want this." Faramir stiffened at the sorrowful words. "I know Aragorn does not do this to make a show of his hurt. I know he means well, for all of Gondor. But the Elf… the Elf did not like sympathy. He would not approve of this."

The steward closed his eyes against the sting of his tears. He took a deep breath to compose himself, swallowing the aching lump in his throat. When he felt strong again, he spoke. "I know, Gimli. We all do. Let us take this for its worth. Some may benefit." He thought of Fethra and felt reaffirmed in their purpose. He could not spot Ioreth in the crowd, but he was certain she had brought the child to this event. He had spoken with the healer the day before and had been pleased to learn that Fethra was adjusting well to her new home. The girl was still melancholic, but the other children eased her suffering. For the first time in her short, sad life, she was with a true family.

Gimli released a short breath that shivered in a restrained sob. His hand closed over Faramir's briefly. "You are a good friend, Faramir," he declared softly. Then he turned and walked slowly to this place among the nobles.

Faramir watched him until he could no longer pick his stout, forlorn form from the crowd. Then he released a slow breath.  _A good friend. I failed him, Gimli. I failed him in ways you cannot even begin to imagine._  Memories haunted him, but he angrily shoved them aside. He would not add more misery to this afternoon by dwelling on his faults. He was the Steward of Gondor. The people looked to him for strength, for guidance. He turned slightly as the wind pushed by him, bringing the scent of the flowering tree near which he stood. His eyes narrowed as he looked upon the renewed tree, wondering at its endless glow, at its endurance. The lowest branch was well above his head, despite the fact it had been a mere sapling two years earlier. Darkness had come to Gondor many times before. Even when hope had seemed to all but disappear, they had not given up their valiant fight. He recalled then days spent as a child, looking upon the withered tree. Though Boromir had told him that never again would Minas Tirith have such glory, his young mind had never allowed him to lose that dream. Now the tree stood, beautiful and magnificent.  _From the ashes rises life. We will not let this defeat us. Blood will never dampen this tree's glow._

A flash of dark hair caught his attention, and he turned once more. He saw Éomer speaking softly to Imrahil's daughter, Lothíriel. She was cousin to Faramir, and quite resembled her mother in look and manner. The lady was young, her face pretty and pale, her form slender and an ideally attractive shape. She was soft-spoken but not shy, purposeful in words and gentle in voice. He regretted that, as with Imrahil's sons, he did not know her better, for she was a kind and lovely girl. Éomer was adorned in regal attire, his hair drawn back, his green surcoat snug about his body. The clothing made him appear older and wiser. At this distance Faramir could not hear their conversation, but Lothíriel's lips turned ever so slightly in a smile. The steward could not help but lift his spirits at the sight. Éomer's eyes glowed faintly as he bowed to the woman, she curtsying in return. Éomer bade the lady a fond farewell, kissing her hand softly, before turning. Faramir witnessed the hints of a blush creep upon Lothíriel's cheeks as she clutched her hand lightly to her breast. Then she joined her family.

Faramir smiled at his brother-in-law, and Éomer received the gesture with a sheepish grin and half of a shrug. The young King of Rohan picked his way through the mess of nobles and guards to reach the steward's side. He was somewhat breathless. "It is nearly time," he said, though it was clear his mind was upon matters entirely different from this event.

The words dampened his elevated mood immediately. He stood, releasing a slow breath, forcing the taut muscles of his body to relax. He did not want to join Aragorn at his rightful place. He did not want this painful show to commence. That trepidation had more than anything dragged him away and into the crowd. It seemed assuming his proper position would only cement the truth and augment the pain. His body felt heavy, his legs planted solidly upon the path. Staying as such indefinitely was a silly thought, but his beleaguered mind was forced to consider it.

There was a flash of black. Faramir turned at the movement in his peripheral vision. There, near the side of the crowd, a dark figure slipped inside the right wing of the courtyard. It had happened so quickly that for a moment he doubted his eyes. He squinted, staring at the now securely closed door, questioning the validity of his fatigued senses.

Éomer, however, quickly confirmed that it had been no trick of his imagination. "Did you see that?" The young king leapt into motion then, for Faramir was already moving. On light feet the ranger pushed his way into the mass of people, quickly weaving through the horde of spectators. Éomer was close behind him, struggling to dodge feet, arms, and bodies that suddenly came to obstruct their path.

Eventually they emerged near the right wing. They stood in the shadow of one of the massive balconies, glancing about them in search of clues to verify what they had seen. There was nothing amiss. Éomer even asked some of the people standing about the area, but none had witnessed anything suspicious or extraordinary. After a moment, the two lords rested at closed door. "Perhaps we saw naught," Éomer suggested, his young face torn in doubtful befuddlement.

Faramir was forced to entertain the prospect, even though he was decidedly unsure that all was well. The wind grew cold, and his skin tingled madly against its icy caress. Raindrops splattered periodically in his hair, as if seeking to drive caution into his head. He looked around frantically, desperate for any indication that this dark foreboding was true, for any evidence that there was indeed some threat. "Surely the gate Guards would have apprehended an intruder," Éomer announced, squinting and a bit winded. He glanced nervously to the front of the yard and the mess of people blocking their approach. "Mayhap we should return, Faramir. The ceremony will begin shortly."

The nagging voice of duty distracted him for a moment. He was needed with his king. He was a steward; he could not simply go gallivanting in search of some phantom danger! And his mind was too eager to make a fool of him. He was not about to be a willing participant in his own embarrassment.  _My own? If I am tardy, it will be the embarrassment of my nation as well._  But, try as he might, he could not shake the crawling feeling that something was amiss. The air reeked of a silent menace.

Without another thought, he grabbed the knob of the door and pulled it open. Éomer tried to speak, but the steward was already inside. The young king grunted his annoyance before leaping through the closing portal as well.

It was dark within, a few candles suspended along each wall of the long corridor. It took Faramir's eyes a moment to adjust to the diminished illumination. Ahead was a flight of stairs. "This is folly," Éomer stated simply as he followed Faramir up the steps. "We are lords, not guards! It was probably some boy seeking a better vantage from a restricted area. That is if it was something at all!"

The steward silenced Éomer's complaints with a quick, stern look as they reach the second floor. The king's face darkened with annoyance, but he obliged his friend and said nothing more. Faramir stood still atop the stairs, struggling to listen above the pounding of his heart. At first there was silence. The breathing of the two men echoed down the empty, dark hallways. Periodically, gray light entered as beams through the windows and balconies. There was the blasting of horns, then, and a great ruckus from outside. Éomer groaned. "Faramir…"

"Up," gasped the steward softly, still not satisfied. His feet were moving rapidly after that, flying along the second set of stairs to the third level of the wing. Once there he stopped. He glanced down both lengths of the dark corridor.  _Which way? There is not the time to check them both!_  "Go right," he whispered shortly to Éomer. "I shall go left."

Éomer's mouth opened in a refusal, but he closed it again at seeing the worried, fearful look in the steward's eyes. He nodded, now convinced that this was no act of flippancy. On quiet feet he turned and proceeded into the shadows.

Faramir drew a deep breath and slipped down the blackened corridor. His tensed his body, using all he had learned as a ranger to tread lightly but quickly. He minimized the sound his jogging body made, breathing softly and stepping carefully. It would do no good to alert whatever danger lay in wait with a noisy approach. He passed doors, stopping to glance inside and finding only empty quarters. The light from the balconies spilled into the hall, illuminating the stones of the floor. His heart pounded in his throat. With each step he drew closer to the end of the corridor, and his frenzied search had yielded nothing. This was just some figment his senses had conjured forth to make the fool of him. Surely this was some boy after all…

A great roar came from outside.

He stopped as he passed the opening to one the balconies. His heart stopped, his breath hitching in his throat.

There, hiding in the shadows of the overhanging floor above, was the black clad figure. Faramir swallowed his terror and pressed himself along the wall, fearing that any slight sound might draw attention. Horrified eyes watched as the dark form shifted, languidly parting a cloak of shadow to reveal what appeared to be a quiver. He looked down the arm and saw a long bow.

Faramir could not think. He could not breathe. Outside Aragorn was speaking, proclaiming the purpose of this day to the crowd assembled and welcoming the Haradrim to the Citadel. The words made no sense to the muddled mind of the steward. He could concentrate on naught save the actions of the assassin. He was paralyzed, frozen by fright, shock, and dread.

The shadows shifted. The figure parted with his cover and stepped to the railing. The arrow was fitted to the bowstring, and the assassin held perfectly still. Sleek. Powerful. Strong. Faramir's mind utterly stopped.

He recognized that poise.

The figure drew back on the bow, and the tip of the weapon fell into plain sight. It was gray, expertly and ornately carved, distinctly Elvish. Mindlessly his feet moved, stepping away from his cover so that he might more fully observe. The deadly tip of the arrow was centered on the Citadel's entrance, more than a hundred yards away from the vantage. He knew of only one person who had the skill to strike such a target.

The rain came softly. Silence.

_No. This cannot be. Stop this! Stop!_

" _Legolas, no!_ "

But it was too late. The bow of the Galadhrim sang a murderous melody as the arrow was released.

A shrill scream resounded, and the king fell.


	24. Fools of Nature

The world was ending all around him.

_The world was ending all around him._

If he did not act now, everything would be lost.

_He could not let go!_

There was a great roar.

_Screams. Shouts. The clank of armor, of swords. Horses cried as they fell, hit by wayward arrows, spilling their riders into the grass and mud. The thunder of a panicked legion of retreating soldiers was deafening, booming in the air, shaking the very land beneath them. Everywhere there was death and blood, and the clamor of battle allowed no one a moment to even think. There was naught save the panic. They needed to escape. They needed to escape now._

_Hasufel was running of his own direction. Faramir held tight to reins, his bloody hands providing little traction with which to secure his grip. He dared not lift his other to fortify his grasp. The strength of his shaking fingers was all that kept Legolas' limp form against his own. The Elf slipped another dreadful inch as Hasufel stopped suddenly, the great gray horse stepping back quickly to avoid the swipe of an Easterling's wicked sword. Faramir gritted his teeth against the pain. Legolas was pressing heavily on his bruised side, and his arm was shaking with the strain of the archer's weight._

_He heard Gimli's cry ahead. The Dwarf rode precariously atop Arod. "Faramir! They have blockaded the bridge! We are trapped!" The cry was rent with fear and panic, rough and frantic._

_Faramir lifted his eyes and looked ahead. Though his desperate spirit vehemently wished his tired eyes deceived him, he knew it not to be the case. The eastern river was completely filled with soldiers scrambling to cross, water splashing high into the air as the men floundered. The Easterlings had taken the stone bridge, lining upon it a frightening row of archers. The opportunistic warriors made easy targets of the retreating men. Within minutes the water had turned a hideous red. Bodies were strewn about, trampled in the frantic rush to reach the opposite side and thus relative safety. Arrows whizzed by, some narrowly missing intended victims, some striking those less fortunate. It was a moment of utter chaos and panic. All of Gondor's army was fighting to cross that small river. To be left behind would mean death._

" _Move faster!" cried the steward. "Stay standing!" Frantically his eyes scanned the muddy morass, watching as men fell, horrified that so many were dying in this hasty retreat. For a moment he slipped into the despair, his heart holding still, his breath lost to him in a wheezing sob. Ai, how his chest hurt! Alas for this terrible day! Death was everywhere, yanking at souls, stabbing at flesh with arrow, knife, and sword. Men lay mangled, staring up at him with pleading, unseeing eyes as he charged past. The mist reached to him with wispy fingers, seeking to yank him down, to trap him in this mire and claim him for their own. In that endless instant, he prayed that it might. To survive this horror…_

_But he could not accept defeat. Legolas needed him. He clutched his friend's form to his breast, the archer's head lolling against his shoulder. The fact of it was still a horrifying mystery to him. Legolas had not been seriously wounded that Faramir could perceive. It seemed the Elf had simply lost consciousness and fallen from Arod. As frantic as he and Gimli had been in trying to revive their ailing friend, their attempts had been abandoned for the sake of reaching safety. He had helped Gimli to mount Arod once more before scooping Legolas' body into his arms and struggling atop Hasufel._

_His mind churned with worry. What had happened to the Elf? Darkly he suspected Legolas' collapse was directly the result of whatever had been plaguing him. The fever in his eyes, the pallor of his face, the quiver of his hands… Faramir had seen these signs. He had had the warnings from Aragorn on Legolas' deteriorating state. And yet he had said nothing. The night before had been the perfect opportunity to force the Elf to stand down, and he had let it slip through his fingers. They would all pay dearly now for his cowardice and negligence!_

_Arod skittered about ahead, snorting madly. The white stallion had no wish to enter the water, whipping around nervously. Gimli grew angry and panicked, kicking the riled beast lightly and demanding that the horse cross the river. A veritable stampede of soldiers followed, some of the braver turning to launch frantic arrows at their pursuers. The morass of a shoreline was utterly chaotic, pandemonium wreaking havoc on whatever remained of command and order. Survival was now the only goal. Instinct guided minds and bodies in this frantic flight. It seemed only fate now controlled the lives of warriors._

_And fate, as fickle as it often was, forsook him._

_Hasufel charged into the bloody water with a massive splash. Droplets sprayed everywhere at the force of the horse's impact, covering Faramir in an instant. The steward winced as another mount fell, the animal struck by an enemy's lance. Men were crushed as the mass of the horse came down upon them, and terrified screams filled the air. Hasufel was deep into the river, the water level reaching the tops of Faramir's thighs. The waves from the struggling, drowning horse distressed the steward's gray steed, and Hasufel lost his momentum. The result of this unfortunate chain of events was immediate and devastating._

_There was no room to maneuver in the crowded river, given the number of men, both dead and alive, in the water. Thus, they could not avoid the barrage of arrows raining down upon them. Faramir's breath was lost to him as the razor-sharp tips whizzed by him, slicing the air loudly. Most narrowly missed. One struck._

_Legolas' body shuddered against him as the arrow sunk deep into the Elf's exposed side. The horror of the disastrous event never had time to register. Hasufel reared mightily to avoid a collision of warring men and the violently slashing swords that lay in their path. Faramir lurched, his thoughts abandoning him in his terror and panic. He jerked forward, nearly tumbling back as Hasufel rose. His hand slipped. Then the comforting weight was no longer upon his side._

_Legolas was gone._

_So numbed was his mind that for a moment he could not understand what had happened. Then there was a loud splash. He snapped from his stupor. His eyes widened. His heart stopped its mad pulse. His mouth opened in a soundless scream of absolute fear. He thought to shout for Gimli's aid. He thought to fall as well, to act, to do_ something _in this, the blackest of moments. But he was paralyzed. He could only watch, panicked and horrified beyond any thought, as the river swallowed the unconscious Elf hungrily, as though it was greedily accepting a sacrifice to its watery fury. The waves swelled with blood and shadow. There was a flash of yellow and gold, but then Legolas disappeared, sucked down and trapped under the stampede._

_Finally a strangled cry broke from Faramir's ashen shaken lips. "No! Go back! No!" But Hasufel could not understand his fevered orders, hearing only the desperation in his master's tone and knowing the danger of the situation. The horse jumped forward, finding a path through the mess of men and mud and propelling them powerfully through the river. Faramir grunted his fury, yanking back on the reins and trying to turn the beast about and return to the spot Legolas had fallen. Animals were perhaps wiser than men, though. In hindsight, the steward would be forced to realize the cold logic of the animal's actions. Had they gone back, they would have been brought down as well. Had they helped Legolas, they would also have been lost._

_At the moment, though, the thought of leaving his dear friend, of abandoning his comrade, was the most repulsive notion to ever come to him. Tears spilled from his eyes, streaming down a red face to smear the mud and grime caked upon it. He would not be a traitor! He would not be a murderer!_

_But it was too late. From behind, their attackers closed the distance between them, launching barrages of deadly bolts and arrows upon the fleeing army, screaming their victory like banshees and demons. They were laughing. Sneering. They spilled into the river in force, trampling the injured, pulling captives from the water violently. Those fatally wounded were slain cruelly. Crying and shouts filled the air, but Faramir could hear none of it. The pounding of his bleeding heart had seemingly slowed, each thundering beat pronounced, difficult, and painful. Hasufel snorted as he pulled himself upon opposite bank. Faramir's hands were limp upon the reins, shaking madly, his eyes trained behind him in a mindless stare. In the commotion, he could not see if Legolas was pulled from the water. Water blurred his vision. He swallowed the sob choking him._

Go back,  _came the frantic cry of his spirit. He shuddered with misery, with despair._ Go back! Do not leave him! Do something! Act, act, act!

_Do something!_

Faramir snapped from the memory. The world slammed into him, and his body shook at the force of the impact. Sight returned to him. Sound pierced the numbing veil. He felt the tips of his fingers tingle. His toes. His limbs felt heavy, lethargic, and his knees nearly failed him and sent him to the floor. Panic jolted him, and he suddenly jumped into action. He had let Legolas fall all those days before at Emyn Nimsîr. He did not understand what was happening now, but he was certain it was somehow the product of that failure. He would not fail again!

His feet pounded against the floor as he sprung forward. Over the thundering of his frantic heart he could hear screaming and shouting, though those sounds seemed terribly distant, as if a great distant lay between him and the outside world. His eyes widened in terror as Legolas smoothly fitted another arrow to his bow. The archer drew back quickly and powerfully, though to Faramir's eyes the action was slow and torturous. His mind worked frantically to absorb the sheer impossibility of what was happening and reconcile that with the truth his eyes fed him. He knew he would never reach Legolas in time to prevent him from loosing the arrow.

The perfectly crafted fletch left the Elf's fingers with a snap. Faramir's voice was lost in his throat, his breath trapped within him, as he watched that shot careen away from them. Only one idea crossed his traumatized mind.  _I must stop him!_

He reached the Elf and gritted his teeth, grunting as he threw all his weight forward in hopes of tackling the other. But Legolas was much faster. As if he had known of Faramir's presence all the while, he launched a lightning counter. His body remained utterly still, perfect in every taut, elegant line, as his forearm snapped upward, his fist balled tightly. He struck Faramir square in the face. The steward did not even realize he had been hit before the archer spun, twisting his lithe body gracefully, and rammed his now open palm powerfully into Faramir's chest.

The world bled painfully as Faramir's body snapped backward. His momentum was not enough to counteract the magnitude of the blow, and his innards seemed to crush themselves into his throat as he was thrown bodily backwards. He had no time to register the hurt, the air leaving his lungs, his mind no longer sorting the mess of sensation. Then he struck the ground hard. The force of the unforgiving stone smacking into his body yanked him back to reality, and time jerked horridly into motion. He cried his surprise and hurt as his body slid back a few feet and then came to a rest.

There was no time to linger, though Faramir was terribly dizzy and his chest ached ferociously. He struggled to untangle his legs from his arms, leaning upon on his elbows, his eyes watering. A blurry shadow leapt to the top of the stone railing of the balcony. Then it disappeared.

Faramir spat the blood from his mouth, wiping at his oozing nose, as he staggered to his feet. His body was uncoordinated, his movements sloppy and shaken by disorientation. He reached the railing, grasping it and leaning over. Legolas stood nearly fifteen feet below him on a lower balcony, having jumped down to, presumably, get a better shot. Faramir growled in frustration and fright. The strength in that strike, the speed with which Legolas had moved… He abandoned his doubts and dismay. He needed to act!

Instinct took control of his shaking body. Fear at what he was about to do grabbed him momentarily, his thundering heart booming in his ears, his courage wavering in the gales of despair.  _Move!_  shouted his sense of duty.  _Jump!_  He hauled himself upon the railing, his body heavy and slothful. Below he observed with dread as Legolas prepared to again assault the Citadel entrance.  _Now!_

He gave a cry as he jumped. The wind rushed by him, robbing him of his very breath, and he seemed to tumble downward forever. But then he struck, and his aim had been true. Both man and Elf slammed into the balcony floor, Legolas crushed under his weight. Faramir grimaced when they collided, his head whacking painfully into the other's shoulder. A daze claimed him again in that moment, a painful fog enveloping his mind, leaving him winded and woozy. Bile burned the back of his throat as nausea twisted his stomach. The stupor lasted but a few moments, but they were costly indeed. Legolas was quick to regain himself. The Elf was silent as he rolled, yanking Faramir around. The man stumbled; the archer simply moved too fast to counter any of his actions!

Blackness danced on the edges of Faramir's vision as he was slammed roughly into the railing. His chest heaved desperately for air, his lungs quaking as he heaved for breath. A hand, as strong as steel, wrapped around his neck and squeezed mercilessly. Panic coiled about the pit of his stomach. He dug his fingers into Legolas' grip, fighting desperately to dislodge the crushing hold. Heat rolled over his body, and his head swam in lightheaded pain. He needed to breathe…

Panic was the only weapon afforded him. With the last thread of consciousness and strength he did not know he possessed, he managed to wedge his knee between his abdomen and the Elf's. His back scraped over the smooth railing as Legolas strangled him. A choked whimper escaped his lips as he pushed, shoving whatever remained of his power into that desperate blow. Legolas gasped as he was knocked sharply back, and the murderous fingers left Faramir's throat. He sucked in a great, wheezing breath.

Relief came too soon.

His blow against Legolas had apparently given his body enough momentum to push him over the edge, and he had been closer to falling than he had originally thought. He had no time to cry his alarm as he tipped over the edge of the railing.

Faramir flailed as he fell. He knew not how he had the mind to move at all, for his will fled his body on his lost breath, eager to escape the gruesome demise that awaited him in a matter of seconds. Madly he reached for anything to stop his descent, panic jolting through him like lightning. Forever he seemed to plummet, the ground spiraling beneath him. Then his fingertips grazed something and closed tightly. He stopped abruptly, and his stomach lurched into his throat as he was jerked upward. Agony shot from his shoulder to his fingers, and he nearly lost his hold.

The black banner he had grabbed wavered as the steward struggled to strengthen his grasp upon it. Faramir hung helplessly, dangling about fifty feet from the crowd below. Seconds passed in which he simply regained his rushing breath, in which his mind struggled to comprehend the amazing fact that he was still alive. Above the deafening rush of blood in his ears he heard screaming. The people below were rushing from the Citadel, trying to shield themselves from the assassin's fire. A few were watching him dangle above them, their eyes wide and their faces pale with terror, pointing and screaming. The strain upon Faramir's shoulder was becoming excruciating. He had caught the banner with his wounded arm, and, though the injury was old, the limb was not yet strong enough to support his weight so completely. Venomous pain pried his fingers from the cloth, and he swung his body around so that he might secure another grasp. After doing so, he breathed a gentle sigh of relief. His form quivered in waves of gratitude, a cold sweat collecting upon his temples. How lucky he was to be alive!

There was a loud ripping sound, and frantic eyes shot upward.  _No._  His soul shriveled in dread. The black cloth was tearing from its supports, the wooden bolts that were fastening it to the balcony twisting and pulling free with his weight. As if that was not a dire enough problem, the fabric was tearing about the hooks that connected it to the bolts as well. He wished vehemently that his eyes and ears deceived him, but such frivolity was only wasting vital seconds. He watched, numb and paralyzed, as it tore, thread by thread.  _Ai, no!_

_Climb!_

Climb? How could he climb? There were no footholds, no places in which he might anchor himself to provide the needed support. The wall of the building was well beyond his reach, at any rate, and he certainly could not swing underneath the balcony to brace his feet against it. But he had to try. He grunted, his lips pulled back with the effort, his muscles taut and bulging through his surcoat as he fought to lift his weight. He dared not reach upward with one hand, for he knew the other alone could not maintain a sufficient grasp. Desperately he yanked and thrashed, but all his movements awarded him was further damage to the banner. One bolt had come completely loose, and the others looked to be soon in following. An additional second of the stress of his weight proved his worst fears true, and with a horrific rip, the banner fell away.

A hand reached down and grabbed it. After that, another secured the grasp. "Faramir! Hold on! I have you!" The steward could scarce believe his ears. It was Elladan. A moment later a dark head appeared over the edge of the balcony's stone railing. Tears blurred Faramir's vision as the Elf lord pulled on the banner. He did not care to wonder how the other had known to come here. Two more hands came to reinforce the grip, these larger and more callused. Éomer.

Together, Elladan and Éomer managed to haul the steward up to safety. A few torturous minutes passed as the two labored, breathing heavily with more than the physical exertion. When Faramir reached the balcony, he grabbed frantically for the railing, his fingers unbelievably grateful to experience the simple security of stone beneath them once more. Éomer grabbed his forearm, and Elladan balled a fist into the shoulder of his coat. There was a moment of grunting, dragging, and struggling, and then all three were safely on the other side. The now freed banner floated to the ground.

The steward collapsed, swallowing the lump in his throat, his chest heaving for breath. Sweat and tears stung his eyes, and his mouth tasted like blood. He lay gasping against the banisters, shuddering from the close brush with death, comforted by the drizzle blowing into the balcony. The cool stone sucked the heat from his skin, and in that instance, he simply breathed, the rush of panic and terror slow to fade. Everything slipped from his mind.

"Legolas! Stop!  _Legolas!_ "

Eyes that he had not realized had slipped shut now snapped wide open. Faramir gasped, stumbling to his shaking feet. Éomer and Elladan had already risen, launching themselves at the Elf clad in black. Faramir could barely follow Legolas' movements. He fought as though he danced, stepping lightly and rapidly, his body languid and powerful as he melded with the shadows. He could not see the archer's face beneath the black hood. Faramir shook his head numbly as Legolas landed a mighty kick into Elrohir's midsection. He had never seen anyone fight like this! The Elf prince made every feint and return, every parry and counter, seem utterly easy. He was flawless in his execution, and even the littlest twitch was coldly calculated. He had long known Legolas to be a powerful warrior, gifted with unparalleled agility and alacrity. Yet, as he stood, grounded by shock and awe, he realized his friend was much more than a soldier.

_He is a killer._

Elladan jumped back, raising his arms in a late block. It was clear neither he nor his twin had expected such skill from their peer, and Legolas took advantage of their alarm. Before the Elf lord had even recovered from the reeling force of the deflected blow, Legolas was moving again, landing his fist into Elladan's gut. He feel back, gasping, and Elrohir was quick to charge Legolas in his brother's stead. There was a flash of pale white. Faramir's blood ran cold. "He has drawn!" bellowed Éomer, the young king stepping lightly just outside the arc of the knife's slash. Like glints of lightning the blade streaked, violent and dangerous. Even more chilling was the fact it was wielded by the deadliest of experts. That it was wielded against  _them_.

A breath later the blade stabbed towards Elrohir and slashed through his tunic. Pain barely registered on the Elf's face as he twisted and stepped into the blow, grabbing Legolas' flying wrist and twisting it sharply. Not a sound came from the archer as he effortlessly rolled with the motion to minimize the damage done to his balance. However, Elladan had seen this opportunity, and he wasted no time in grabbing it. He flung himself at Legolas' legs, and together, the twins brought him down.

Legolas' bow fell as he stumbled, his stance destroyed and his poise faltering. Faramir scrambled forward, finally parting from his mindlessness. Still, even with Elladan and Elrohir pulling him to the ground, Legolas struggled violently. His elbow connected with Elrohir's jaw, and down went the other with a gasp of pain. Éomer kicked the knife from the archer's hand, though, and the gleaming, bloody blade flew into the shadows. Legolas' foot slammed into Elladan, snapping his face back maliciously, and the lithe archer was free again.

It was incredible and terribly disturbing. He seemed to anticipate all of their movements, constantly ahead of them in every exchange. Was this the true power of the Elves? Never before had Faramir witnessed two of the Firstborn fight, and it was belittling and horrifying. They moved so quickly that his eyes missed details until moments after, when the action had long been completed and the next begun. His mind churned frantically, despair and desperation bringing tears to his eyes. Why was Legolas doing this? It was almost as if he was driven… They did not want to hurt him!

But it soon become evident they had no choice. Now free from the twins' restraints, Legolas drew the other of his knives from the folds of the black garb he sported. This he brandished at Faramir, turning to face the steward. Faramir's heart halted in its beat as he saw the shining edge of that white weapon scream towards him. Petrified, he could only fall back, and he did so roughly, landing hard on his back. The shroud of darkness enveloped the Elf as he bore down on the helpless ranger. Faramir choked on his fear, skittering back, kicking fiercely as Legolas raised the blade. Tears filled his eyes. It could not end like this! Legolas could not kill him! To die by the hand of his beloved friend, to be slain in cold-blood without motive or reason, to be murdered by a creature that once so loved peace…  _Please, no!_

He did not know if he spoke the words. Fate had certainly blessed him in these last moments, and for reasons he could not find the will to contemplate, it continued to bestow upon him a kiss of good fortunate. As Legolas prepared to strike, a horrified cry came from behind them. Then the Elf arched his back, the knife falling aside as he staggered. His body was bent, twisted with what Faramir realized to be pain. But the steward spent no more thought on it, for he had gathered his wits about him. Grunting, he slammed his palms to the wet stone for support. He propelled himself forward and rammed into the Elf, throwing all his weight into the tackle. They both went down with a thud and a cry of misery.

They had finally succeeded in dazing Legolas, and Faramir did not intend to allow that advantage to be wasted. "Quickly, grab his arms!" he ordered, his voice hoarse. He had the Elf pinned, straddling the other's waist. His eyes were frantic as he looked up to Éomer. The king was seemingly paralyzed, his expression one of absolute horror, his eyes wide with disbelief. Legolas' bloody knife dropped from his suddenly limp fingers.

Faramir's breath caught in his throat as he felt something warm and wet soak into the leg of his breeches. He swallowed uncomfortably, fighting to maintain whatever remained of his composure, as he looked down. Blood was spreading across the shadowy stone, and its obvious source was the gaping hole in Legolas' side. The laceration was deep, pulsing with thick red. His life spilled from him in a gruesome torrent. Faramir shook his head numbly, his eyes large and glistening, his face pale and trembling.

Elladan and Elrohir crawled closer, their faces as torn and tortured as Faramir felt. Each Elf grabbed one of Legolas' hands. The archer had regained his senses, and now he began to buck madly, struggling violently to get free. Elladan worked frantically to pry Legolas' fingers from about the hilt of his knife, and when that did not disarm him of the weapon, he slammed the other's hand down repeatedly into the stone. The blows were painful enough for the wriggling Elf to abandon his grip, and the blade was shoved away.

Legolas was silent as he writhed and kicked, yanking and pulling at the restraining holds. Faramir shook his head, battling the pounding of his emotions upon his equanimity. Did he not realize who they were? Did he not know who he was? "Legolas, lie still! Stop! Be still!" He pressed his hands to the Elf's shoulders, leaning all his weight onto the body beneath him. Éomer finally broke from his dismay and set to restraining the Elf's wildly kicking legs. The grunts of the young king were loud in Faramir's ears as he fumbled and fought.

"What has been done to him?" Elladan gasped, fear and revulsion in his tone.

Faramir shook his head numbly, unable to even consider the answer to that question.  _Elbereth, help me… Stop this!_  The steward risked pushing back the Elf's concealing hood, his fingers trembling in trepidation. Though he was not sure he had the bravery to face what he might find, he could not longer deny the screaming questions of his writhing heart.

He gasped.

The pale face was Legolas undeniably. The fair features were twisted in pain and effort, lips pulled into a thin, determined line. He was dirty and bruised. Dried blood was caked upon his hairline. He looked… gaunt and thin, as though he had not eaten in many days and rested in even far fewer. But it was his eyes that were truly the most disturbing.

They were black. Mindless.  _Soulless._

Faramir shuddered, his breath coming in wheezing gasps. He could not stand to look into those midnight orbs, for in them there was nothing but misery and guilt, torture and torment. He knew it then and there, deep within him where he could face the awful truth. Legolas had not been killed. He had been taken captive, and during that time, they had  _murdered_  him. He bowed his head for a breath, wondering how they could ever have been so foolish as to wish that their Elven comrade had been made a prisoner. How could they have yearned for such a fate? How could they have been so stupid and ignorant as to think the enemy would not…  _Death would have been better!_

He could bear it no more. "Legolas? Legolas! Look at me!" He grabbed the archer's face, laying his hands on the sallow cheeks. Those furious, shadowy eyes met his own. Time slowed then, and he lost himself in the swirls of anguish. They sucked him down, wrapping him in chains and binding him to his misery. To the unquestionable fact that he had caused Legolas to fall into the hands of those who had done this to him. "Ai, what has happened to you?"

There was a blink of blue. The tense face suddenly grew slack, frightened, and pained. White lips moved in a shaking whisper. "Faramir?" Hope rose suddenly within them all, but it was immediately beaten down by the cruel silence that followed as Legolas lapsed into unconsciousness. Those dark eyes rolled back, eyelids fluttering as they pressed long lashes to white skin.

Gasping. Wheezing. Weeping.

Then a cry from the world beyond. "King Elessar has been shot! The King is wounded!"

_Do something. Act. Do something!_

There seemed to be little point in it, though. No matter how he acted, no matter what he did, he could not end a nightmare that was apparently only beginning.

* * *

It seemed impossible. Every beat of his heart demanded that he deny these terrible events. His mind was stricken, stumbling in its attempt to understand, to make some sort of sense from all he had seen and heard and felt. Separate sensations came to him, disjointed and frantic, and he did not want to piece them together for fear of what the final picture might become. The truth. The terrible, tumultuous truth. His soul was woefully ill-equipped to bear the burden of reality, though in these violent moments, he doubted such comprehension would bring him peace. Beneath his battle to reconcile the experience of his senses with the beliefs of his mind, a sickeningly calm portion of his heart declared a frightening fact. They had been foolish to think this war won. They had been foolish to think Legolas dead. The fact of it was this: they were vile traitors. Legolas had fallen at Emyn Nimsîr, struck down by the sickness they now knew to be the product of Velathir's dastardly poisoning. Faramir had not been able to save him, and when the prisoners had been released at Emyn Arnen, the Elf had not been among them. None of the men liberated had seen him. It had only been logical at that terrible juncture to assume their friend had been killed during the retreat when he had fallen into the river. It had been only logical to assume his loss had become harrowingly permanent! Weary hope had been traded selfishly for closure. But the enemy had again preyed upon their apparent stupidity, and now Legolas had been returned to them when they had finally seemed to accept that his disappearance at Emyn Nimsîr had meant his death. That had been no accident. It was merely one more twisted clue to the plot about them.

But Faramir could not bring his mind to delve into these convoluted thoughts. There were dangerous and pressing matters at the moment, and pondering this latest perverted strike could not distract him. The steward winced, stinging sweat pouring down his pale face and striking his squinting eyes, as he turned a corner in the Citadel's winding halls. Legolas was heavy in his arms as he stumbled, angling his scanning eyes over his shoulder so that he might had an inkling of where his frenzied feet were leading him. He supported the Elf's shoulders while Éomer carried his feet, and both men were frightened enough by the utter pandemonium smashing the peace about them.

The Citadel was pulsing in panic. People rushed all about them, servants running around with tasks, soldiers struggling to reinforce their keep, lords milling about uselessly. The clamor was deafening, a muted throb of sound that ached in Faramir's head, but every so often he could understand a few words. King Elessar had been wounded, though few knew the extent of the injury or how it had been inflicted. After the rain of deadly arrows had ceased, the Guards had pulled the royal delegation back into the safety of the Citadel's great entrance, and Aragorn had been taken to the healer's quarters deeper inside the massive manor. The Houses of Healing were too far away at the moment to be kept secure, and it was a decided risk to take the king there when he would be exposed in transit.

Fear filled the air. There was talk of invasion, of the Haradrim somehow causing this disaster and using its disorder to their advantage. The dreadful words bombarded the steward, stealing from him his composure bit by bit. He knew not what was happening, and that was a state he most certainly despised. How could he help if he could not parse truth from terror? How could he control a situation he could not comprehend?

_You have but one goal. Get Legolas to Aragorn!_

He could not stop to wonder if Aragorn would even know what was wrong with the Elf, or if Aragorn was well enough himself to mend the hurts done to the prince. He could not stop to ponder the sheer impact this would have upon them all. He had grabbed onto the fleeting hope that their healer-king could help, desperately clinging to whatever faith he could find. His bleeding soul simply offered him no other option. Aragorn would know what to do, and there was no time to waste. Blood dripped to the floor in a hideous trail from the wound in Legolas' side.

"There!" cried Elladan loudly, pointing to a hallway ahead. A crowd of soldiers and servants filled the corridor, most craning their necks to see inside one of the rooms, some standing in a protective formation, others weeping and whispering prayers.

Elladan and Elrohir pushed by Faramir and Éomer, raising their voices above the din. "Stand aside! Hurry!  _Stand aside!_ " The Elf lords, as rattled as they were, stepped nimbly into the throng of people. The agitated command was enough to draw the numbed attention of most the onlookers. An expression of horror grabbed their faces as Éomer and Faramir carried their charge as carefully and as rapidly as possible along the path the Elves created. Gasps and sobs fled the people closest to their steward, the women turning their faces and covering their eyes, the men white and lost in their stares. Faramir paid their distress no heed, wishing not to augment his own, as finally they reached the quarters.

The room was rather small, and it was made even more so by the number of people crammed within it. Éowyn dropped a roll of bandages in alarm, stepping forward but then stopping a second later, the color draining from her pretty face. The healer, an elderly man who served only the Citadel and its occupants, blanched as well, his wrinkled hands shaking. A momentary burst of surprise addled Faramir at finding Lothíriel in the room as well, her dress and hands covered in blood.

Aragorn stood as they burst through the door. The king brushed away the hands of his wife as she tended the injury in his shoulder. The arrow wound was clearly superficial, and already it had been treated. Faramir's heart shuddered painfully, and he blinked back the tears of momentary joy as they moved inside the healer's quarters.  _He is alive,_  his mind chanted in euphoria. The tension was nearly sucked from his limbs as weary relief assaulted his strength.  _He is alive!_

"What is–" Aragorn never finished his question. His gaze fell to Legolas' limp form and widened. A great many things shone in those gray eyes, flashing furiously as they stared at the form of his friend. Shock. Confusion. Joy. Eventually the storm abated, and only terror was left. "Get him onto the bed!"

Faramir and Éomer stumbled forth, those nearest to the bed reeling backwards to allow them access. Legolas' limp form was set atop the sheets, and immediately Aragorn was at his side. The king's jaw hung open limply, his entire form tense and terrified. His eyes spent a long moment scanning the horrific sight laid before him, as if trying to convince a doubting heart that indeed this nightmare was real. "Legolas…" The name left him on a breath, his lips hardly moving with the sound. A long time seemed to pass before Aragorn moved, all eyes in the room upon him. Then the king's hand balled into a fist so tight that his bones seemed to bend and snap. "Water!" he barked, turning violent eyes to the healer. "Bandages! Now!"

The silent, still moment ended abruptly, and everything was moving. The healer stumbled away, seeking the items his lord had requested with shaking hands and a ragged breath. Aragorn immediately set about undressing Legolas, his fingers stiff with rage as they fumbled for the ties of his tunic. His hands swept down, coming away bloody. The red spilling from the gaping wound in the Elf's side stained the sheets, spreading crimson fingers into the white linen. Aragorn's face was wrathful as he turned fiery eyes upon Faramir and Éomer. "What did you do to him?" he demanded. His voice promised violence, his eyes flickering menacingly. Faramir's heart pounded in agony. He saw no trace of the man he had grown to love and respect. Insanity borne from depression and fury had claimed him, destroying calm and peace and leaving naught save the cold fire of vengeance.

Éomer's face was white and covered in sweat. "Aragorn," he stammered, his hazel eyes glimmering in shame. "Please, there was no other choice! I swear to you, I did not wish to do it. I had no other choice! Believe me, please! I beg you!" The young king's voice suddenly failed him, tears nearly spilling down his cheeks. He quivered with guilt and anguish. Faramir's spirit shied away from the sight, unable to bear the sight of his friend so stricken. Aragorn grunted and dismissed the words. It was almost as if he made no distinction between Éomer and the demons that had taken Legolas from them. They were all monsters to him, monsters that had hurt his dearest friend.

Éowyn acted when the others could barely form a thought. She stepped forward, steeling her face and taking her distraught brother's arm. "My lord, escort the Lady Lothíriel to the Houses of Healing, if you would. Her family is there, and the way is too dangerous at the moment for her to make the journey in solitude."

Vaguely Faramir heard the words, and his attention was drawn from Legolas for the moment. "In the Houses of Healing? Why?" he questioned, suddenly greatly concerned. His relatives in Dol Amroth were all that truly remained of his own kin, and the thought of another one of them hurt pierced his heart like a thousand barbed needles.

Lothíriel's pale face glistened wetly. Her bloody hands she wiped again on her now ruined gown. "Amrothos has fallen," she murmured. Faramir stared at her blankly a moment. Then the rage swelled up within him, spreading agonizing fire to each inch of his pained body. Had this day no mercy? How many more miseries might it bestow upon them?  _And there are many hours yet,_  he bitterly reminded himself.

Éomer stood still a moment, shaking, struggling to regain his composure. He was visibly torn, knowing he had not the skills to aid his companions with Legolas and yet wanting to remain all the same. Eventually he acquiesced to his sister's soft wishes, bowing his head. He took Lothíriel's arm gently and led her from the room.

Arwen was speaking softly to her brothers, her eyes narrowed and her voice hushed. The Elvish words were fast and quiet, but Faramir knew she was sending them to the Houses of Healing for more supplies. This station within the Citadel was hardly equipped to deal with such serious injuries. Elladan looked ready to object, but Elrohir silenced him with a quick glance. They were experienced healers. Only they would know which herbs to choose and how to fashion them into the proper broths and salves. The twins turned, Elladan promising to be back as soon as possible. Then, casting one last look on Legolas' form, they ran outside.

Faramir felt himself exhale. A second later, the vacant doorway was again filled, though now with a stocky form taut in a hot rampage. "The Gate has been secured, Aragorn!" Gimli roughly declared as he shoved his way inside. The steward winced as the Dwarf halted in his movements and his tense face loosed itself in an expression of confused horror. Gimli never had the chance to speak again or act, though, for a frightened cry interrupted the long moment's progression.

A foot suddenly struck Faramir's side, and pain exploded along his ribs. The force sent him stumbling, and he hit a table cluttered with healing paraphernalia as he tumbled to the floor. The wooden legs collapsed with the force, crushed beneath his weight. Glass shattered as vials and flasks struck the stone, and he was instantaneously covered in pungent fluids. He recovered quickly from his daze, scrambling to his feet, shards digging into his palms as he pushed himself up. Arwen screamed.

Legolas' eyes were empty as he bore down on Aragorn. Faramir's moment spent reeling had proven costly indeed, for now the once unconscious Elf was again attacking the king. Aragorn's eyes were huge with terror and confusion as his friend launched himself upon him. They both went down in with a crash and a yelp, and within seconds Legolas had his slender hand balled in Aragorn's bloody coat. He moved so fast, even so seriously injured, that no one had time to even think to counter him. His fist he rammed purposefully into the king's bandaged shoulder, and Aragorn was unable to stifle the scream of agony that tore from his lips. The effect was devastating. Aragorn was dazed, and in that split second, Legolas wrapped his arm about the king's throat and grabbed his jaw. The other hand grasped the man's brow. Faramir choked on his breath. He was going to snap Aragorn's neck!

"No!" howled Gimli, and the Dwarf rammed the Elf. Faramir was astonished that the stout creature could move so quickly. Legolas was forced to release his victim, and the Elf went down under Gimli's weight. Faramir broke from his fearful stance and threw himself across the bed. He slipped to the floor on the other side, throwing his body on top of them. Legolas screamed his frustration. It was the first sound he had truly made, and it was horrible. It came from deep within the Elf, and it spoke of insanity, of torture. The lithe form beneath them writhed and flailed, struggling desperately to dislodge the restraining weights atop him with little care for personal injury. Aragorn hollered something to the women, requesting that an herbal concoction be brewed. Vaguely Faramir wondered how the king intended to make Legolas drink anything, but the thought was lost as the Elf prince wailed again.

"Get him up! Hold him!" Aragorn demanded. Fresh blood colored the dressing on his shoulder. The king traded positions with Gimli, grabbing Legolas' left arm and shoulder and forcibly pushing him to the floor. Gimli's face was a picture of agonized misunderstanding as he pinned down one of the Elf's violently kicking legs. Aragorn looked to Faramir, breathing harshly through clenched teeth. "On my mark we lift," he snapped. Faramir nodded resolutely. He tightened his grasp on Legolas' right arm. "Now!"

Faramir groaned angrily as he and his liege pulled the struggling body from the floor. Legolas immediately sought to pull away, using his free leg to strike at them. They had anticipated such a move, though, and Faramir shoved him heavily to the bed before he had a chance to hit either man. "Hurry, Arwen!" Aragorn shouted in Sindarin, his gray eyes shining in panic.

The steward and the king pinned each of Legolas' arms to the bed. Gimli practically sat on the bucking prince's chest, mindful of the bleeding laceration in his side. Arwen approached, carrying a dripping cloth that reeked of a sour smelling medicine. Her face was tense and firm, but her eyes wavered as she grabbed Legolas' jaw. The Elf prince refused to remain still. Éowyn reached over Faramir and took hold of the prince's dirty hair, her other hand coming to push down his head. Arwen took immediate advantage of the temporary restraint and clamped the malodorous cloth over Legolas' mouth and nose.

The Elf shuddered and screamed, the sound muffled by the swatch. He stilled, obviously fighting not to breathe in the vapors. But he had no choice. A few seconds passed, the emptiness broken by charged gasping. Then Legolas' eyelids slipped down, fluttering before closing completely. The tense body grew still and limp in their holds. Seeing the Elf again fall asleep, Faramir slowly released his grasp. His fingers ached mercilessly from their tight clamp about the prince's limbs. His head was swimming in pain, his pulse slamming against the insides of his skill. His side ached. His shoulder felt wrenched from its socket. A thousand little cuts upon his hands stung and bit. Exhaustion came over him, and he nearly collapsed. Nothing felt so heavy as his heart did, and he wished that somehow he could change the terrible course of things.

Aragorn's racing breath slowed, and he leaned back, watching Legolas' bruised face as though the Elf might again at any moment wake and attack him. He shook, tears filling his eyes, as he leaned back.

Gimli was glancing frantically between the two men, his eyes dark with rage and puzzlement. "What is happening?" he demanded. "Why is he acting like this?"

Neither man could answer, though both knew the truth deep inside. It stabbed into them like a knife, bringing misery and agony to everything it touched. It was terribly obvious, though admitting it was a feat that required strength neither possessed. The enemy had attacked Emyn Nimsîr to take Legolas. They abducted him and turned him into a killer. It made repulsive sense. Legolas had an intimate knowledge of the Citadel. He could slip in undetected, and he was aware of the best vantages from which to launch an assault. He was an Elf warrior and a master archer, skilled in silence and strength. He was nearly impossible to subdue.

He was the ideal assassin.

Worse, though, he was a brother to the king.

Faramir heart utterly broke when he thought of the hurt inflicted upon his dear friend. To turn someone that so loved peace into a monster…  _Oh, Legolas! I am so sorry! I let you go… I am so very sorry!_

"Let us act now to tend to him." The soft voice broke through the haze of despair, chiming with tender logic. Arwen looked to the group. It was clear she was struggling to maintain some semblance of poise. "We must hurry before he again awakes. The draught will last perhaps an hour."

The steward glanced to his wife. Éowyn's face was twisted in torment, but she remained stoic enough to step closer to the bed. "My Lord," she said to Aragorn, "help me undress him. He bleeds too much." Blue eyes shone with cool compassion, and her hands were steady as she touched Aragorn's shoulder. Faramir marveled at her control, at her unwavering poise. The two ladies remained steadfast and strong when the lords faltered. The sight of their hope was enough to breathe life again into dying souls.

They worked silently for a few minutes. When Legolas' black clothes proved too difficult to remove, Aragorn simply cut the material open. Faramir pulled at the shorn tunic, his hands shaking. Legolas' chest was revealed to them. Arwen closed her eyes and looked away, tears escaping to roll down her white cheeks. Éowyn choked on her breath. Gimli was still, shocked and sorrowful. It took all of Faramir's will to keep his gaze steady, to not succumb to the wishes of his suffering mind and avert his eyes from the horrific sight.

"Ai, Legolas…" Aragorn murmured, his face pale, his eyes glistening. Legolas had been beaten, and beaten very badly. Slashes covered the Elf's breast, wrapping around from his back, cruelly marking the torture laid upon him. The skin was ripped and torn, covered in dried and fresh blood. Bruises marred the alabaster flesh, turning his chest into a mottled mess of deep purple and blue. There were older wounds on his left side, aged but not healing. The wicked cuts had been obviously caused by a chain or something of the like, for in some places the welts resembled a pattern of links. It disturbed Faramir to imagine the force with which he must have been struck for that shape to be imprinted. The slashes, lacerations, and bruises continued around his side, and no doubt his back was as mutilated as his torso. There did not seem to be a spot on him not bloodied.

Stunned by the sight of such brutality, Faramir was unable to stop his eyes from roaming the rest of the sleeping Elf's body. He saw things now that in the panic of before he had missed. The Elf's wrists were red and raw, indicating he had been bound for quite some time. Around his neck as well were bruises, the skin chafed and inflamed. His hair was tangled and dirty, in some places matted and streaked with blood. His skin was cold and dull. Lifeless.

" _They_  did this to him!" Gimli suddenly shouted, glancing furiously about the still group. The Dwarf's voice cracked in emotion, his dark eyes murderous and hurting. "Those monsters will pay! I will kill them all for this! Every last one will taste the fury of my axe! I will…" His voice failed him, and his shoulders shook as he lowered his head, unable to stand the sight of the crimes done to his friend.

Blood glistened wetly on the right leg of Legolas' breeches, and Aragorn mindlessly tugged at the ties of the garment. What more could have been done to him? What further injury could they have inflicted? The Elf was destroyed, his body a violent painting, a husk torn and tortured. Faramir's rage afforded him little but helpless tears, and he nearly sobbed his misery as he helped Aragorn pull down the torn clothing. It seemed as if nothing more could have added to this disaster, to this horrific testament to the cruelty of men, to this sadistic work of brutality and battery.

But there was more. Faramir's lungs clenched. His stomach twisted, and for a moment he was certain he would be sick.  _No. Not this. No!_  Éowyn turned away, her hand on her husband's arm for support, finally sobbing her distress. Gimli released a baleful, alarmed cry. Arwen covered her open mouth with a quivering hand. Aragorn shook his head numbly, stepping back and recoiling as if physically struck.

The bruises on Legolas' hips, the torn flesh, the blood… They had  _violated_  him. From the extent of the damage, it was starkly clear they had done so numerous times, and with great force.

Silence.

Horrible, unending silence.

"I am a fool. It  _was_  no dream." The king's soft words were tinged by sorrowful depravity, by an insane chuckle. Then Aragorn's horrified, murderous scream echoed throughout the room.


	25. Tempted Toward the Flood

It took the better part of two hours to control Legolas' bleeding. The Elf's injuries were extensive, and few could be easily treated. When Elladan and Elrohir returned from the Houses of Healing, they had set to stitching the gaping stab wound in their friend's side for that was certainly the most dangerous and required immediate attention. Aragorn had recovered from his raging haze, and since that piercing wail, he had been utterly silent. He worked with steady hands, his face drawn and apathetic, his eyes veiled. It was as if his spirit had utterly fled him, leaving a body driven in a cold, emotionless mission. Though this abrupt apathy chilled Faramir, the steward was not about to question it. If such a mindset gave the king strength, then for now it was enough to find hope in that.

While the Elf had remained unconscious, the two women and the two Elves had washed him, cleaning the blood, dirt, and grime from his broken body with damp cloths and water basins. They dared not bathe him; already he had awoken once and thrashed about wildly before Arwen had again managed to subject him to the sedating fumes. He would be far more difficult to control in a tub, and, truth be told, a bath's purpose was more selfish than anything. The sight of their friend, once so proud and strong, so utterly wrecked was a torment to their eyes and hearts.

In these last hours, Faramir had helplessly stood, transfixed by the sheer enormity of what had happened. Action had been all around him. He had heard voices, seen things he had never wished to witness. Exhaustion and self-preservation had offered his tormented mind an easy escape: detachment. Thus he had remained in the background, watching as his wife and friends labored to save Legolas' life. He was not skilled in the healing arts, and thus he would have been only a hindrance to the urgent process. Such a sense of uselessness had not sat well with him, and every so often would the parts of his mind still tethered to duty and station remind him that there was yet a country to manage, a country that was terrified and ignorant of what was happening. But he had found he could not leave that small room, his guilt anchoring his feet to the floor as though his boots were fastened to the stone. Everything, his responsibilities, his intentions, his people, had become unimportant in the face of Legolas' return. Even if he could do nothing, he somehow felt obligated to remain. He had left Legolas when the Elf prince had been in need once. He would not do so again.

Still, there had been no chance for redemption. The others had never required his assistance.

Many people had come and gone in that delirious time. The haze consumed him, and Faramir had lost perception of them all. At one time near the beginning of this nightmare Imrahil and Éomer had arrived. Faramir had come to learn more of Amrothos' injury, and knowing that his cousin would survive eased him. The young lad had apparently seen the glint upon the balcony seconds before the first shot. He had not been fast enough to prevent Aragorn's wounding entirely, but his tackle was all that had stopped the deadly arrow from piercing the king's chest. The second shot had come immediately after that, before either king or noble had even realized what had happened, and the arrow had sunken deep into Amrothos' back before they had even struck the ground. Imrahil's face had been dark and malevolent as he had spoken of this matter, his eyes fiery and furious. Faramir had nearly forgotten Ercirion's death, so long ago it seemed. To lose another son in this awful war…

Neither man had stayed long. Éomer had told the Prince of Dol Amroth of Legolas' disastrous return, and the man had been torn by much the same misery, anger, and confusion as the rest of them were. Not much had been said of the matter, aside from the obvious questions that served more to hurt the situation than to help. The lords had realized their inability to be of any assistance, so they had taken their regretful leave, assuming charges in the defense of Minas Tirith that Aragorn had not explicitly laid upon them. Neither was so wanting in intelligence as to not note the king's wretched state, and both had power enough to delegate men in the fortification of their city. With them they had dragged Gimli. The Dwarf had done naught but spit threats and pace as the two ladies, the twins, and Aragorn had worked frantically to help Legolas. It was clear to any present that Gimli suffered terribly at the sight of his dear friend so brutalized. Every twitch of the Elf in his sleep would result in the stout warrior barraging the frantic healers with questions, comments, and demands. When the others would shift enough to permit it, he would immediately push his way up to the bed and worriedly watch Legolas, as if fearing that at any moment the Elf might simply shatter at their touch and reveal this misery to be a nightmare. He had meant well, of course. He merely acted upon inclinations that Faramir stifled; helplessness was a torture to the Dwarf, and he plainly wore the tormented signs of his frustration. His love for Legolas allowed him no restraint. Only Arwen's soft words had been able to convince Gimli that he could do nothing but torture himself by remaining. Her gentle kiss upon his tense, ruddy face had freed tears from his eyes, which she had wiped away as though there was no need to cry. As though the brush of her fingertips had the power to restore broken bodies and bleeding hearts. It had been enough to ease the Dwarf into reluctantly joining Imrahil and Éomer in the world beyond the tiny room.

Others had appeared as well, bringing messages to the king, seeking direction or approval. Faramir had found a use for his idle mind and mouth finally in addressing these wide-eyed, astonished visitors. Though he had answered their questions and given them orders, he did not feel confident that Gondor was secure. Often had he thought to venture from the healer's quarter, but the box closing about him suffocated his sense of reason and duty. In this enclosed space there was naught but heat and blood. He had been unable to attend to matters of state. Worry had rushed in like a hungry scavenger. He imagined the cry of the people, their pulsing confusion, their rage and sorrow. Surely they wished to understand how such a fearsome act could have happened. By now, rumor of the king's safety had spread throughout the streets. Faramir prayed that the identity of the assassin would remain hidden, at least until they could determine the truth behind these vile happenings. It would do them no good to have a riotous public, outraged by the appearance of betrayal. They would need to proceed cautiously.

These practical thoughts were blasted by the awesome strength of his shame and sorrow. His faculties had escaped him, as if fleeing the violent sundering his senses waged upon his spirit. The world had moved, shifting, but its colors were dull and its sounds were distant. He had been trapped in a mire that permitted him no escape. He had been drowning in guilt, in worry, in ire and grief.

Stopping Legolas' bleeding had been a break in that dreadful monotony. Still, as he watched the Elf's chest rise and fall with shaking breaths, he found he did not know whether to have hope or nothing. The chaos that had grasped them all loosened its vise-like fingers, and for this moment they could breathe.

So little was bright. So little was warm. Hope had betrayed them before.

Faramir sighed tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose, hoping that silly action might somehow squeeze out the ache that had settled behind his brow. "Stop that, Faramir," Éowyn admonished gently. He opened his eyes and looked to his wife. Her pale face shone with a thin sheen of sweat, and her eyes glowed meagerly with her sorrow and worry. He offered her an apologetic nod, relaxing his face as she again began to dab at the blood crusted about his mouth and nose. Only now, after they had succeeded in controlling Legolas' bleeding, could she spare a moment to care for her battered husband. Faramir's hurts were not substantial, but tending to them clearly calmed his wife. Perhaps the mere fact of their simplicity was what eased her. Cuts and bloody noses were ailments with which she could contend. So he just sat still and allowed her this reprieve. To say her care was not comforting would be a lie, at any rate. Faramir swallowed and leaned slightly into his wife's form, her warmth alluring. She stopped in her ministrations and gently wove her fingers though his hair, locking his head to her abdomen. Faramir closed his eyes, but the memories came relentlessly, pounding at his wavering sense of calm. The guilt choked him, black and thick. How he wished to change the past! How he wished to have held tighter to Legolas during the retreat! All this pain, this sickness laid upon their friend… Had he only been stronger!

Éowyn said nothing, but somehow he knew she understood the very depths of his anguish. He could hear her heart beat, and the sound was soothing and steady. His love for her rose up within him as a wave of liquid warmth. It was like rays of a golden sun piercing through a veil of thick, dreary clouds. She reminded him of stability, of security, of constants in life that no amount of disaster could change. There was peace in that, at least, and in this moment he embraced her body and soul, wishing for nothing more than the power of love to blast away the misery encasing his heart. He was glad she did not offer shallow commiseration or false absolution. Such vain efforts would do nothing save heighten the terrible truth of it. He could not be saved. He could not save Legolas.

He breathed, swallowing the aching sob lodged in his throat, comforted by not having to see. Oblivion seemed a solace, an easing pall of senseless rest, but it could not be complete. He could hear a great whispered discussion. The words were Sindarin, melodic and pleasant despite their urgent undertones and their devastating subject. Faramir was wearied, and he did not wish to pick apart the quick, sorrowful conversation. Yet the oblivion receded, and his mind paid the exchange analyzing attention.

"This is no ordinary sickness." This voice was Elladan's, and its tone was taut with worry and anger. "There is blackness about him. The… violation runs deeper, beyond the damage done to his body. Surely you sense this as well."

A pause. Then Arwen continued. "He is tense. Every fiber of his body is tight and stressed. Though he sleeps, he does not rest."

"He was driven, Estel," Elrohir murmured. "He fought like none I have ever before seen. He had no care for pain, either to himself or to us. He moved… ai, his speed was unparalleled. It was as though all the emotional restraints morality places upon a warrior had suddenly vanished. He did not recognize us."

"Or if he did, he did not care," added the other twin softly.

"So easily did he face four opponents, and only when Éomer struck him with the knife were we able to subdue him. We did not wish to harm him, but we had no choice." A sigh. "He would not have willingly done this! Legolas would never raise a hand against you, or against any of us… He would never put us in such a difficult position! He would never…" The pained voice lost its courage and wavered. "They have taken him from us. They have taken him from himself."

The hurt in Elrohir's soft words pierced Faramir, and the steward pulled away from his wife. He could not longer bear to listen and remain silent. This condescending ache of helplessness was the worst of all. "Then what can we do to bring him back?" he demanded, speaking in Westron for the benefit of his wife. He stood, ignoring the dull hurt of his bruised shoulder and ribs. His eyes were dark and angry. Gazes turned from him, averted in fury, shame, and sorrow. "There must be something!"

Arwen was the first to recover. Her face was pale and forlorn, but her bright eyes glinted in a placid solemnity. "There is little time. We cannot render him senseless indefinitely. We must decipher what it is that has been done to him, and we must do so quickly. I fear… what he might do to himself or someone else should he be allowed to awaken in his state again." The queen's last comment was soft and conveyed a tone of immeasurable worry and misery. She glanced worriedly at her husband while laying a slender hand upon Legolas' forehead. The Elf prince winced in his forced slumber, as though the simple touch caused him great distress. Arwen seemed momentarily fraught with his reaction, but she recovered quickly and rubbed his temple soothingly. Faramir could not help but wonder how aware the fallen Elf was of the world about him. He could not help but ponder the dark dreams that so twisted his friend's countenance.

Elladan's voice became frantic and imploring as he settled his gaze upon Aragorn. "You saw his eyes. You saw their shadow! The raped his soul as much as they did his body." The words made Aragorn flinch, and the previously silent, forlorn man skewered the Elf with a withering glare. But Elladan refused to allow Aragorn's nearly tangible rage dissuade them from the truth. "Breaking his will alone could not have put such a black aura about him! This is not natural! He writhes in delirium yet there is no fever! His heart races dangerously! We must uncover the truth, Aragorn. We cannot treat his ailment until we understand it! You know this!"

"Aye, I do!" snapped the king angrily. His eyes gleamed ferociously as he looked around the room. So hot was his glare that Faramir was forced to avert his eyes, the steward somehow feeling his friend blamed him for Legolas' fall.

Elladan stepped closer to Aragorn. His voice was low, his jaw set firmly, and his eyes glowed sternly. "You took prisoners, did you not?" The hiss of Aragorn's breath through clenched teeth grew softer, and his harsh expression softened a bit. Gray eyes became distant and slightly thoughtful. "Ask it of them! Perhaps one would be willing to trade secrets for asylum…"

Faramir lifted his head. A thought suddenly occurred to him, breaking through the veil of guilt about his mind. The same notion had clearly come to Aragorn, for the ranger's once glazed eyes sharpened, and he turned. The king and the steward met each other's other gazes, this common idea diffusing the tension between them. The ramifications were hazy and imposing. Still, there was little choice. Aragorn's shoulders sagged and he nearly wavered on his feet. With a blink, eyes once bright and fiery became absolutely exhausted and melancholic. "Send for Emperor Holis."

Elrohir suddenly grasped Legolas' suddenly thrashing arm. The Elf prince was again becoming distraught, his face twisted into a horrid grimace. Sweat beaded on his temples as lines of agony appeared on his otherwise smooth face. As the dark-haired lord attempted to restrain and sooth the moaning archer, he flashed Aragorn a concerned glance. "Are you sure that is wise?" He said no more, but the implication of his words was starkly clear. The Haradrim had nearly become official allies, and by all rights the treaty would have been signed had not the ceremony been interrupted. Still, enough doubt remained to stain the fledging trust growing between the two nations, and the prospect of inviting the reformed leader of a once hated enemy into their most secured sanctum was unnerving. The others did not know of Holis' role in the War of the Ring, and Faramir counted them somewhat blessed for their ignorance. This simple order held a much more sinister, a much darker twist to it because of such knowledge.

Yet he could not deny the logic of the request. The Southrons had once served the Dark Lord as much as the Easterlings had. They had all united in their evil causes beneath a banner of blood and gold. If there was information to be had on what their enemy had done to Legolas, Holis was the most likely of any to have it.

"Faramir, send word to Éomer and Imrahil. Have them locate the emperor and escort him here. Tell them that we offer him whatever he wishes in return for his aid!" Aragorn bellowed. Faramir snapped from his daze at his liege's vehement order, and then the steward winced at Legolas' scream rent the air. He glanced to his wife, watching the fear play in her eyes as she rushed to the side of the bed to assist in holding Legolas still. Faramir watched paralyzed by horror as the Elf writhed and bucked.  _What is doing this to him?_ It was almost as if whatever force that had driven him in the plot to murder Aragorn was now punishing him for his failure.

He felt his feet move beneath him, and urgency suddenly drove him to the door. He stumbled, yanking on the handle, the steel somehow burning cold, quivering fingers. His heart pounded erratically, and the pulse of blood between his ears was the only sound loud enough to mask the keening wails coming from within the room. A page halted in the corridor and dropped a basket of linens to the floor, ashen-faced at the terrible racket and at Faramir's desperate appearance. The steward grabbed the boy's arm and spoke quickly, relaying orders to the wide-eyed lad. As young as he was, the page understood his lord's panic, and that alone was enough to urge all possible speed from him in his newly appointed task. After bowing stiffly, the young man was off in a sprint, tearing through the mess of soldiers guarding the hall, his bundle and its destination abandoned.

Faramir was back inside the room in a heartbeat. He closed the door behind him, wishing not to disturb the rest of the Citadel and maintain what little peace and secrecy remained. Were it not for the terror he felt, the sight of his friends piled on top of the single bed might have been amusing. As it was, he only staggered forward and offered his strength in restraining Legolas. The Elf prince let loose a shattering scream, his head thrown back against the pillows, his eyes squeezed shut agonized sleep. Aragorn grunted as he pushed his friend's shoulder down, his hand tightly circling a wrist. Elladan and Elrohir had their weight upon Legolas' legs, preventing the wounded archer from kicking and tearing the wound in his side.

Arwen sat at the head of the bed, holding Legolas' head in her lap. She spoke to her brothers, obviously searching in their impressive knowledge of remedies for another option. "We cannot continue to force sleep upon him like this. The effects are minimal, and augmenting the amount further is too dangerous!" she whispered, her face ashen and incredibly concerned. "What say you, my brothers?"

Elladan looked to Elrohir. Legolas abruptly writhed up beneath them, and Elrohir was nearly kicked in the chin. Elladan grunted, his normally calm exterior angry and frustrated. "Cramp bark!" he shouted, turning flashing eyes to Faramir's idle form. "Perhaps it will relax him enough for the draught to properly sedate him!"

Éowyn angled her head about, looking to her husband first and then to her right. "On the table there, my Lord!" she gasped. Legolas' hand was balled tightly in the bloodied fabric of her once courtly gown. Her slender form belied the potency of her muscles, for she hardly jerked as the ailing Elf pulled and pushed at her.

Faramir was at the wooden table in a moment. It was not unlike the one he had previously broken, and it seemed too small given the amount of clutter upon it. Vials, sprigs of various herbs, and bloodied and clean bandages made a mess of the top. Upon a chair aside the tiny table was a pile of black, glistening clothes. These were Legolas' discarded garments, and the shine he knew to be wet blood. A dark red glint suddenly caught his interest, and he was forced to pause by his curiosity. It was a necklace. Its chain was fine and silver, and lying among the shining coils was a gem. It was very small. The fireplace and candles spread illumination throughout the windowless room, but none of the light seemed to penetrate the bloody gem. The jewel nearly appeared black, dull even. He spent a moment pondering it, intrigued by its dark mystery, allured by its elegant lines and masterfully crafting. Something about it was strangely exciting, and he was troubled by its idle appearance. He supposed it was Legolas', as it had been placed close to his clothes. Racing thoughts blasted questions within him. Why did Legolas have such a thing? He had never known his Elven friend to don jewelry before. And if he had sported it before being taken captive, why had the Easterlings allowed him to keep it? The pendant seemed somewhat familiar to the steward, as though he had heard of it before…

"Faramir!" came a desperate cry. Yanked from inspecting the dark gem, the steward jumped, startled and panicked. Two identical dark vials had been positioned at the corner of the clutter. He had seen Éowyn carrying these before. Giving no more thought to it, he grabbed one and thundered back to the bed.

Tears streamed from Legolas' closed eyes. His face was a picture of agony, and Faramir felt something inside him throb. Long had he admired his friend for his unending calm, for his smooth tranquility. Too see him like this… Arwen focused a frightened but firm gaze upon him for a moment. "There is a cup of water there. Pour only enough to turn the water dark." Faramir turned, glancing about for the vessel she mentioned. It was upon another stand as messy as the first, and he took it quickly. Uncorking the small flask, he carefully poured a bit of the black liquid into the cup. With inky tendrils it snaked through the clear water, and it became murky. The aroma was quite repulsive, and had Faramir been of the right mind, he might have likened it to the stench of the cloth Arwen had previously used to render Legolas unaware. As it was, though, his mind was too entangled in panicky thoughts to realize it as he ran back to the bed.

Legolas choked on his breath as he struggled to free himself. It was a terrible sight to see. To him were their helping hands indistinguishable from the hands that had harmed him? To him were they indistinct demons that he deemed dangerous? The thought of being mistaken for those monsters made the steward's stomach twist.

The archer would not willingly open his mouth to receive the medicine, no matter the demands of an aggravated Aragorn. He turned his head away, his hair a tangled mess upon Arwen's lap. The queen remained calm, grasping Legolas' face gently and forcing him to face them. Éowyn's breath caught as the Elf's grip upon her became painful, but the woman did not falter as she helped Arwen steady Legolas. Faramir watched, transfixed by the sight, as Arwen pinched Legolas' nose. The action had the desired outcome, and a moment later the Elf's previously locked jaw came open.

"Hurry, Faramir!" snapped Aragorn, the king bearing down all his weight on Legolas. He managed to loose a hand, and he grabbed Legolas' jaw and forces it open. The steward wasted no time, coming closer with the cup. Legolas jerked and trembled in his misery, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, gasping loudly. "Legolas, be still!"

Faramir leaned down over the Elf, lowering the medicine as he did so. It passed by Arwen's face as he made to tip it against Legolas' lips. The queen's fair expression became one of sudden alarm. "Nay, it is the wrong solution!" she cried, releasing Legolas to grab the cup and push it away. "It smells of the sleeping draught!"

Cold panic washed over Faramir, and he leaned back as if punched in the face. He had grabbed the wrong vial! The offensive broth spilled over the sides of the cup with the abrupt motion, the slimy liquid coating the steward's fingers. Aragorn's glare was venomous and furious as it fell upon the steward. "You fool! You could have killed him!" The sharp words struck Faramir as though a physical force had rammed into his stupefied body. The color drained from his face as waves of shame and anger washed him cold. He cursed his wandering thoughts of a few moments prior. He had allowed himself to become distracted! He felt terribly useless and unworthy then, and his legs become lifeless stilts beneath him that refused to move. So long had he waited to be of help to them, to aid Legolas, and when the time had come his stupid blunder had nearly resulted in disaster!

Éowyn's face was hard with anger as she flashed cold eyes to the irate king. She was quick to diffuse the situation. "Come, my husband, and take my position. I will prepare the cramp bark. Good fortune yet smiles. Many minds can aid tired senses." The sound of his wife's cool logic was enough to shatter the paralyzing hold of his fury, and Faramir stumbled to his knees beside the bed. Éowyn took the cup from his fingers, sliding her thin figure past him, as he grabbed Legolas' arm and held him still.

A few minutes elapsed in silence. Thoughts fled in the face of such toil. Legolas' charged breathing was so loud, beating into each of them the deep measure of his distress. All eyes were upon the beaten Elf, memorizing in every horrible detail the look of those lacerations, gashes, and bruises upon his body. Knowing with lurid precision the location of every blow, of every bite of the whips and chains. The sounds of their friend's anguish would now forever be a part of them. It seemed there could never again be peace. How does one so easily rise above such an ordeal? How does one surmount the shame and continue on in a life forever changed?

Then Éowyn returned with the medicine. After a further bit of struggle, they managed to force Legolas to drink the concoction, though a great deal of the dark liquid spilled down the Elf's chin when he refused to swallow. Hindering his breathing again proved to be an adequate action, and he choked and gasped as he imbibed the foul-looking stuff. He acted terribly aware of his surroundings, though never once did his eyes open. They all watched fervently in the following long moments, and they began to notice a change with some satisfaction and much relief. The combination of the cramp bark and the sleeping draught had succeeded and easing Legolas' troubled slumber. The Elf's once crushing grips and taut limbs relaxed gradually, the grimace sliding from his face to allow an expression of hopefully lasting peace to claim him.

The quiet persisted as the group relinquished their grasps upon their ward. The twins released a collective sigh of relief as they righted themselves, searching each other for strength. Éowyn's hand came to rest on Faramir's shoulder as the steward set Legolas' now limp hand across his bruised chest. The bandage about the Elf's newly stitched wound had become unsettled in the struggle, the white linen dotted with blood. Aragorn's hands shook ever so slightly as he went about mindlessly resettling the protective cloth. The king looked frail, almost as if without the panic he was lost and exhausted. Arwen continued to hold Legolas' head in her lap, her long, elegant fingers stroking his brow compassionately. A tear fell from her blue eyes, tracing the soft contour of her cheek.

Time lost meaning as they recovered. Then there was a knock on the door.

Aragorn stood at the sound, wiping his hands on his blood-streaked breeches. The king drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders. The eyes of the room came to watch him as he donned the guise of a fearless leader, of a confident lord. As he became Elessar. "Come!" he called.

The portal opened. In it stood the boy Faramir had dispatched. He was drenched, and his lips quivered as he fought to find courage enough to speak. Wide eyes sought Faramir, and the steward leaned back from the bed, somehow conjuring forth composure. Éowyn's comforting touch dropped respectfully from his shoulder as he stood. "My Lord Faramir, I have done as you asked of me." The door creaked open wider. Éomer and Imrahil entered, each dripping rainwater as he stepped inside the small room. Their eyes swept the area, and suddenly was their sense of courtly decorum floundered. Maintaining stoicism and propriety was difficult indeed given these tumultuous events. Still, both recovered enough to act accordingly, stepping aside and politely allowing Emperor Holis his entrance. The man's eyes were bright and serious. His tanned skin glistened with rain, his lavish clothes damp but not disheveled. Faramir had not seen him since returning to Minas Tirith days ago, and he seemed as cool as ever. The mass of his dark hair was coiled into a thick braid. Inquisitive was his black gaze, and from those eyes Faramir supposed no secret could be kept. From the other's now worried expression, it was obvious that he had discerned the torment leveled upon the nobility of Gondor by the day's assassination attempt.

Gimli returned as well, the Dwarf's eyes narrowed and distant. His beard was full of rain, and were it not for the dour mood set upon them, the steward might have found the sight of the sodden warrior amusing. Faramir's gaze met Gimli's, and the Dwarf's frown grew mighty. It was clear he cared not for this plan. Every so often he would dart a suspicious glare in Holis' direction. Subtlety was not a strong point of the Dwarf, but if Holis noticed the menacing glances, he did nothing.

Éomer closed the door behind them and then followed the group further into the healer's quarters. "I came as soon as I was informed," Holis said, his voice calm but not without concern. The emperor's gaze left Aragorn's face and settled upon the Elf's limp form in the bed. "There is no need for reparations, King Elessar. I should be honored to aid you in whatever way I can. It pains me greatly to see Prince Legolas this afflicted!"

Faramir caught Imrahil's eyes, and the Prince of Dol Amroth was as hesitant as Gimli to have faith in this action of Aragorn's. The steward forced himself to concentrate. Apparently, Ulpheth, now recovered from his captivity, and his men had ushered Holis quickly from the Court of the Fountain shortly after the attack had started. Faramir wondered if perhaps something had occurred as Éomer and Imrahil had retrieved the emperor from the Haradrim's camp to make the lords so unsettled. But Aragorn began to speak, and these thoughts fell away. "I thank you, Emperor. Please… The torture done to him is deep and dark. I have spent many years tending the wounded and I have never seen anything of this sort. Perhaps you might…"

Holis obviously understand what Aragorn left unspoken. Faramir thought he saw the glint of something hot in the other's black eyes, but in a breath it was gone. "Of course I will do what I can." The man stepped forward, his form tall and powerful, and the others retreated in awe of his silent potency. Elladan and Elrohir exchanged glances and looked to their sister as the fair queen removed herself from Legolas' bed. She came to stand beside her husband, her face impassive and calm in an expression required of her stature. Éowyn's eyes followed Holis' languid movements as she backed away from the bed, allowing the man room enough to examine Legolas. No movement was wasteful. Nothing was hurried. Even the dripping of rainwater from Holis' cloak seemed intentional.

Gimli stalked closer to Faramir, looking up at the steward as the emperor leaned over the fallen Elf. Faramir rested his hand momentarily on the Dwarf's shoulder, seeking to both comfort his friend and draw strength sufficient to quell his own growing distaste for this situation. Holis seemed almost too composed and confident, as though he had expected this. If one could stifle sanguinity, he certainly appeared to be doing so. Faramir bristled, suspicion riddling him with doubt.

Holis' eyes narrowed as he laid a hand upon Legolas' brow. The Elf flinched ever so slightly, and the motion escaped the notice of no one. His fingers gently pulled open the prince's eyelids, revealing dull, black eyes. Faramir stiffened his form to avoid the shudder tickling about the small of his back. "Curious," murmured the emperor. His hand swept down Legolas' face to press upon his neck, seeking the archer's pulse. "I have never seen this until now."

"Seen what?" Éomer asked. The young king was unable to mask the hopeful tone in his voice, and his eyes flashed intensely.

"My… employ in the Dark Lord's service afforded me knowledge of many dark crafts and magics. I came to learn of many black arts, most of which as dangerous and dire as you have undoubtedly imagined." The man sighed and shook his head, his eyes distant in memories that appeared troubling. "The secrets of the evil powers are known to few. Whoever did this to your comrade has an impressive knowledge of their intricacies. Long have I heard of such a… procedure, but rarely was it ever evoked for its difficulty."

Aragorn was losing his patience, his face hard and his eyes cold. "Speak plainly, if you would. He suffers! What must we do to aid him?"

Holis was still a moment, as if shaken from remembrance by Aragorn's harsh words. A sharp focus came to those depthless eyes. "You can do nothing, my King. He bears the signs of the  _thral-gûl_. There is no clear translation of this word into the tongues of men and Elves, but I believe it is most likened to the concept of 'spirit-bringing'. In essence, it is a weapon against the purity of the Elves. The will of an Elf is often far too strong a spirit to be broken. They are resilient against many forms of manipulation, and they are capable of withstanding the most revolting and painful of treatments. The  _thral-gûl_  is an ancient magic, developed to overcome an Elf's will by simply removing it."

Elladan's face was horrified, and Elrohir's was blank and pale. The twins appeared absolutely mortified by the emperor's soft words. Aragorn was distressed by Elladan's soft whimper of misery, and the king's eyes became imploring. "Remove it? Explain!"

Holis seemed reluctant to continue, as though he was afraid further exposition might bring to them unbearable suffering. "I do not need to explain to you the ways of Elven souls. They are not bound to this place as mortals. The body does not exist without the spirit, without the  _fëa_ , I believe they call it. The  _thral-gûl_  is a clever thing. To my understanding, a deadly trick is played upon the spirit. A mortal blow is struck the body. Death is inevitable, and the  _fëa_  parts with the world to partake in its final journey to Mandos' Halls. Herein is the most cunning of illusions, for no such demise ever truly occurred. The soul is led to a prison. The  _thral-gûl_  is a lie, fantastic and amazing, but only a lie. Carefully constructed and issued, it has but one purpose: to rid the body of a pure will and bring into it a will of evil."

The words came and hung on the still air. Nobody had the strength to accept them, to know in the very depths of desperate hearts their meaning. They remained, taunting with the truth and jeering in a deafening silence. How could they understand this? These were lies, hurtful and terrible! Perhaps these were merely the subtle jibes of a nightmare, and as wakefulness could ward away the knives of dreamt demons, silence could chase away the echoes of a reality they did not want to acknowledge. Perhaps simply ignoring this explanation could destroy it and erase it from ever coming to pass.

But nothing had such power. Nothing could make this right!

The room swam around Faramir's buzzing head. He felt as though he was weightless and reeling, drowning in a tense sea of furiously swirling emotions. He was fighting, struggling, dying to escape, but there was no way to free himself. There were no answers. No panacea. No safety, no haven. Nothing.  _For all my damnable thinking, for all my wretched pondering, for all my pathetic intelligence… Ai, this is not true! This cannot be true! Please…_

"What are you saying?" Éomer demanded, shaking his head. His eyes were wide and fearful, and his soft voice quivered. "That Legolas is… That his body remains with us while his soul is gone?" The sound of those words reminded Faramir of the shriek of metal scraping upon metal for all the pain it brought to him. Éowyn turned her face away, unable to hold back her tears this time. Imrahil released a ragged sigh and shook his head absently. Arwen merely stared at her friend's beaten body. Her eyes were dull with misery.

"No!" Gimli snapped. The Dwarf face was scrunched tightly with his ire. "You spit lies, you foul trickster! You seek to blind us from the truth! You want us to let him go! He is right there!" The Dwarf rushed to the side of the bed and swept Legolas' limp hand into his own. He held it tightly, his grief addling his reason, his rage coloring his voice with madness. "He is here. His hand… There is warmth and strength yet in these fingers!" Blazing eyes turned to Holis. There was a murderous shine to the pools of fire. "You demon! You are no different from the monsters that did this to him! The Haradrim have long spread their filth over Middle Earth! Why should we believe you?"

Holis' smooth face broke in obvious hurt. "I would not lie to you, Master Dwarf. I have no reason to deceive you." Faramir broke from his daze and leveled accusing eyes upon the emperor. Memories of their twisted conversation so many days ago resurfaced, and he immediately began to doubt the veracity of this man's pure intentions. It seemed almost too convenient. For his own part, Holis met his gaze, as though drawn to the steward. Those once sympathetic eyes suddenly grew hard. It was almost as if he was challenging Faramir to make something of his suspicions.

Aragorn seemed to have recovered from his shock, his eyes soft and wistful. He appeared almost naïve, imploring a superior being to make different the unfortunate way of things. Like a child asking a parent to breathe life again into a dead sibling. "But he fought," said the ranger, shaking his head numbly. "He struggled for hours in the throes of a strange malady! He writhed in pain!"

"It is his body dying. As the  _fëa_  does not exist without flesh, the  _hroa_  cannot live without the spirit." The logic was cruelly final. It allowed no hope, viciously stomping out any remains of light and faith in their depressed hearts. This truth was brutal, even more so than the loss of Legolas at Emyn Nimsîr. Even in the darkest moments after that there had been a hint that things could return to what they had been. Even after they had rescued the prisoners and found Legolas had not been among them, the tiniest streak of light had persisted. Accepting the apparent truth of Legolas' death had not been able to kill this little nagging thought. And that annoying, vexing spot of hope had proven truer than any, for admitting to Legolas' death had been a mistake. The Elf had been taken, and all hope had nearly vanished.

And now the Elf had returned. Dare they maintain faith?

"Perhaps his soul has not gone to Mandos' Halls," Elladan suddenly declared. Hope shone meagerly in his eyes. "He recognized Faramir!" The steward caught his breath, and his heart began to pound. The speck of hope grew hotter and more insistent. He had nearly forgotten about that! Upon the balcony, there had been a flash of blue in those shadowy eyes, and Legolas had said his name. "Perhaps we can bring him back…"

Holis shrugged neutrally. Faramir thought the action most rude and inappropriate. It was as though Elladan had made a trite conjecture that the rain might continue into the night. "I know not the workings of the  _thral-gûl_. It is entirely possible that his spirit yet remains, trapped within his body, or imprisoned on Middle Earth somewhere… I cannot say for certain."

Something sparked in Aragorn's eyes. He as well became intently interested, abandoning his despair for even the most miniscule chance that they could yet restore Legolas. "Then what must we do? Do not deny me any idea, for I will chance anything if it will save him!" His tone was wrought with desperation, with the very weight of his love for his Elven brother.

"You must slow the progression of his deterioration," Holis declared evenly. He glanced around the room, meeting each pair of eyes as though levying orders to a confused company. "His body must be maintained. Without his spirit, it will yearn for death, and its own demise will come quickly to it. Do not force further sleep upon him. At the moment it might appear to ease his suffering, but he will slip more deeply into oblivion as his body abandons its futile fight. You must not allow that to happen."

"What of his pain, though?" questioned Éowyn. She had clearly regained her equanimity, for her eyes shined brightly with doubt and hesitation. "Surely you do not suggest we let him suffer!"

"It is a far better thing to have him languish in agony and live than wither away in a drugged bliss and die, do you not agree, Lady Éowyn?" Holis countered. Though there was no heat in his tone, the statement was still scalding. Faramir grunted and stepped before his wife, as though the physical presence of his body could serve as a blockade to Holis' words and eyes. "Any small amount of such a draught might only further suppress his life, and that is a risk you cannot afford to take." The emperor's eyes then twinkled with what Faramir could only call amusement. Amusement and a thinly veiled, lustful challenge. The glimmer lasted but a blink, and the steward clenched a fist. "Then it certainly will kill him, and it will be too late for good fortune to smile upon you."

Faramir's gooseflesh rose, and cold sweat tickled his skin. Again those hungry eyes had appeared, found, and devoured his. Something about this troubled him greatly, but his mind was too stricken with so many conflicting thoughts and emotions for him to truly contemplate the worry.

"And what will this gain us?" Gimli asked angrily. His voice was seething, his hand still locked tightly about Legolas'. "What worth is saving his body if we cannot return to its dull husk the light of his soul?"

Holis sighed and shook his head helplessly. In an instant the cruel ghost, the Lieutenant of Sauron, was gone. "I cannot answer this question, son of Glóin." Then a distant look came to those dark eyes. Distant and menacing. "But I know of one who could."

* * *

The doors to the dungeon slammed open with an echoing bang. The guards at the station jumped in shock, nearly falling from their chairs. Wide eyes flew to the group entering. It was certainly a rarity to see any of Gondor's nobility venture down into the dark recesses beneath the Citadel. It was a forbidding place. Minas Tirith's prisons were among the finest crafted. Few had ever escaped from them, for the bars upon the endless rows of cells were impossible to break, tempered of the best iron available. There were no windows, and no light save for the glow of torches that penetrated into the area. Even if a prisoner grew fortunate enough as to somehow breach the door of his cell, the winding labyrinth of corridors would serve to render him so lost and disoriented that the soldiers would have plenty of time to again apprehend him. Shadowy and dank, it was claustrophobic and, though it was dutifully kept clean, decidedly unpleasant.

Thus, when the king charged through the door, the soldiers blanched in absolute fright and alarm. Aragorn paid their surprise little heed, his eyes hard and his voice sharp. "Take me to the prisoner Fallax." The man watched mystified as Faramir, Éomer, Imrahil, and Holis appeared behind the irate king. "Now!"

"Sir, yes, sir!" stammered the man, Aragorn's bark breaking him from his stupor. Then they were moving, following the panicked soldiers as they quickly led them through the corridors. The dungeon was silent save for their walking, and Faramir was beginning to despise the rushed beat of his own heart. It boomed in his head, making contemplation a trying venture. He cursed his inability to concentrate. During their descent through the Citadel, something had begun to irk him. The dark foreboding that had needled its way into his thoughts was indistinct, a whisper of a foul act, of an imminent danger. The strange whine bothered him to no end, for his tired mind could not twist the enigma of all that was happening enough to understand its warning. He was only certain something was amiss.

They reached their destination. Now they stood outside a cell. The light from the torch fastened to the wall behind them barely reached inside the prison, its golden illumination faltering perhaps a foot past the gate. Black covered the back of the cell, obscuring its occupant from their sight. Faramir felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck rise as he peered into the shadows. A hot aura of evil radiated from the abyss.

To the guards and sentinels that were now assembling about them in curiosity, Aragorn said, "Bring him forth. Bind his hands."

The first soldier nodded, and his shaking hand reached for the ring of keys upon his belt. Jingling resounded in the tense silence as he fumbled. With a clink, the cell door creaked open. The other men crowded about, and swords were drawn. The metal blades shone in the yellow light like liquid fire. They charged into the cell.

There was the sound of a scuffle. After that, a grunt of frustrated pain came. The shadows parted, and Fallax was dragged into the light. The brute glowered at Aragorn as the guards made him kneel before the king. Blood trickled down the Easterling's face, his lip split. His black eyes flashed murderously as he lifted his chin in defiance, his glare baleful and hostile.

A lesser man might have faltered under such a withering gaze. Aragorn, however, stood tall and wrathful. "You will speak to me now," hissed the king, his tone threatening. "You will tell me what you have done to the Prince of Mirkwood, or I will personally see that you die."

Silence. Then the thick lips of Fallax twisted into a cruel, vicious grin. It was utterly hideous, and Faramir felt the heat of his anger scorch his restraint. "A final blow," proudly declared the prisoner, "and the most poignant." His accent was thick, and it made his words seem ugly and rough. He laughed. His eyes gleamed in pleasure as Aragorn bristled. "Ask me your questions, filth. Perhaps I shall grace them with answers, though I guarantee you will not find my responses to your liking."

Holis' eyes were narrowed dangerously, his arms folded across his broad chest, as he looked down upon the wretched creature. "I remind you, traitor, that it is  _you_  who is captive and kneeling before  _us_. Do not tempt the wrath of your keepers, for you have already done much this day to deserve torture!"

Fallax spat upon the emperor, and Holis reared back in surprise. One of the soldiers was quick to ram his knee into the prisoner's belly, and the large man doubled over, wheezing. His gruesome face contorted in pain, reddening as he struggled for breath. Aragorn towered over him. He waited until the man had gathered his wits about him again before speaking. "I know you planned the attack upon Emyn Nimsîr to take the prince captive. You conspired with another Elf to assure his fall during the battle. You cannot hide your duplicity any longer; you have been betrayed by your ally." There was the sound of shifting in an adjacent cell. Faramir assumed it was Velathir cowering in the shadows, praying that he would remain unnoticed and thus escape the king's wrath. "I will ask you but once.  _Once._  And if you lie…" He did not finish his stipulation. It was not needed, and the silence was by far more frightening than any words. "What have you done to him?"

Fallax's expression grew grim and taut as he looked down. His dark eyes were ablaze with his fury. It was clear he would not easily obey any will but his own. Waiting was becoming terribly frustrating, and Faramir itched to pummel the information from the man's hunched form. Éomer was not so restrained. The young king of Rohan dug his foot into the prisoner's side. "Answer!"

The words suddenly came. "We took him. We aimed to bend him to our ways, to learn from him the plans of Gondor in the war effort. We figured him the ideal informant, as you fraternized openly with the Elf, and he was independent enough to easily subdue. We knew from his duplicitous cohort that he would not ask for aid if we poisoned him slowly. His pride was his undoing, and he fell into our grasp." The man snorted. "But we could not break his will."

"Was that when you levied the  _thral-gûl_  upon him?" demanded Holis.

"Aye, that was when. We realized he was better suited as a killer than as a prisoner."

Imrahil stiffened, his face a picture of rage. Faramir met his gaze, finding his own fury too difficult to restrain. It pounded against the walls of his control, beating with fists made of guilt and horror and sorrow. The shadows swelled around him, slipping into his body, seducing his muscles into a tense anticipation. Tempting his mind toward a flood of violence.

Aragorn was stiff and coolly dangerous. "Tell me how you did it. Tell me the nature of this foul craft you brought upon him!" Fallax remained quiet, obstinate now in his silence. Enraged and desperate, Aragorn struck him harshly. The crack of knuckles striking flesh resounded in the quiet, and Fallax's head was ripped to the side. "Tell me how I can bring him back!"

The man ripped his face forward once more and fixed the fuming king with a smoldering glare. "I know not," he hissed. His voice grew violent and angry. "The Dark Lord was not interested in saving the spirits of the Firstborn he might enslave with it. If there is a way to reverse it, it was never bestowed upon our minds. And even if it had been, I would not tell you!"

A cry of rage issued forth from Aragorn's lips as he kicked the man in the chest. Fallax yelped as he fell backwards, crushing his bound hands beneath his weight. The guards stepped away. Faramir watched as Aragorn slammed his foot upon the man's breast, holding him to the floor. He strangled the whining voice of empathetic reason within him into submission. His ire afforded him no compassion.

The king pulled a sword from one of the soldiers, and this he held to Fallax's thick, heaving throat. "You lie, demon. I want the truth!" bellowed the king.

Fallax had the audacity to laugh again even as the deadly edge of the shining blade barely hung above the vital flesh of his neck. "I lie? Fie, my King! Why would I lie? They say you are wise as you are powerful, so I prithee, offer this rushed prospect of yours a bit of thought. Imagine my joviality in sending you a gift that your healing hands could not mend. Imagine my ecstasy now in knowing that, should you beat me, should you torture me, there is  _no_  answer you can wrest from my lips!"

"No!" Aragorn shouted, his voice cracking with misery. "You taunt me only! This blade will bathe in your blood if you do not speak plainly!"

Fallax smiled again. Clearly he enjoyed Aragorn's anguish. "Because you ask for something I cannot give, I will furnish you with the details I can. Shall I tell you how his body bent with the blows, my King? Shall I describe the taste of his blood, the sound of its hollow splash upon the floor, the whimpers of painful breath from his lips?" Aragorn choked on a furious sob, and the sword shook violently. Faramir watched, paralyzed and horrified. He knew this would end in disaster, but for all the want of his tormented heart, he could not move. He did not know whether or not to stop this. He was not sure if he even wanted to intervene. Time rushed forward, and he was lost. The words stabbed into him, and tears filled his eyes. He could do nothing!

The grin became hungry, sadistic. A gleam of utter joy shone in the black orbs. "Do you wish to know the pleasure I took from his body?" A laugh. "Your Elf is quite pretty when he screams."

That was it. Whatever remained of Aragorn's restraint utterly snapped, and the sword slammed down. There was a rush of red, and then the body shuddered. Once. Twice. No more.

A long time passed before anybody moved. The echo of awful jeers, of sobs, of screams plagued the tense quiet. Courage was fleeting. Hearts were lost in a miasma of endless suffering. No matter the direction in which they chose to run, there was simply no escape. Then Aragorn released a shaking breath and lowered his head. His dark hair fell before his eyes as he dropped the sword. The murderous blade struck the ground with a loud clank.

No one breathed.

"Hunt them down." The words were so soft that Faramir wondered for a moment if he had heard anything at all. He watched as the king stiffened. "Hunt them all down. Sweep across Gondor and find all that remain. Take them prisoner." The words were horridly calm, malevolent and grim. "Kill any who resist."

Surely Aragorn jested! Surely these were foolish things spoken in a moment of extreme duress! But the king turned, and his dark, vengeful expression convinced the steward immediately that this was neither joke nor lunacy. Those gray eyes were completely tranquil, serene in their bloody, hateful purpose.

Éomer looked to Imrahil and then straightened. He recovered quickly from his shock, his young face vehement and eager. He did not speak, nodding only, desperate and willing to do anything to regain Aragorn's respect. To redeem himself before his friend. The Prince of Dol Amroth finally tore his eyes from the corpse upon the dungeon floor. "As you wish," he responded tersely. Any semblance of compassion had utterly left his eyes.

Faramir could not contain himself any longer. In that moment of horror, everything suddenly became terribly clear. The dark foreboding screamed its triumph as his fatigued mind finally pieced together the unnerving puzzle. "Aragorn," he gasped, stepping forward slightly, "do you not see? There is more to this! Why did they only treat Legolas with such brutality? No other prisoner suffered in a manner even remotely close to his! Why send him into the city as an assassin when they have proven before that they need no aid in positioning their own men as such? They did not need his knowledge, Aragorn! This is folly! That monster leads you about by your fury! They provoke you, my Lord! Do not make a rash decision!"

But Aragorn was not listening to him. Frustration burned him, and he thought to grab his friend by the shoulders and shake him from his barbaric stupor. Yet he could not. He was too stunned by the king's transformation. He was too frightened of the dark aura about the once noble man.

"They cannot be trusted, Lord Faramir," declared Holis.

Faramir could barely find his breath. The man he had admired, the man he served willingly and respected with all his being, the man he had helped to rebuild this nation… his dear friend.  _He_  was the one Faramir could not trust. No longer was this tormented form one of honor, of dignity and strength. That wonderful man had been killed, murdered by grief and rage and hurt. That man was lost. A new one had taken his place. This man was cold and violent. This man was torn and tormented. This man was no one Faramir loved or honored. Familiarity had faded with a brash act of corrupted rage. Aragorn was himself no longer.

He was a complete and utter stranger.


	26. A Moment to Breathe

Two things came to Faramir as his muddled mind emerged from the grips of a strange dream. First was the disorienting concept that he had indeed been sleeping, that the unusual images and perverted scenes set upon him were not real at all. He at first made no sense of this revelation, choosing instead to linger in a doze where speculation could remain idle and he could continue to hide from a world turned brutal and unforgiving. Once alerted, though, his senses were not so willing to abandon awareness for selfish desires, and his lethargic attention was dragged from the comforting veil of oblivion. Then the second thought arrived, and it was far more disturbing.

Éowyn was not in bed with him.

His troubled dreams returned to his mind with a rush of fear and panic, and he gasped. Quickly he sat up, the sheets that were twisted about his body restricting his motion. For a long moment he could not see or think, and all that was true was the phantom of a hazy nightmare. Only when the pounding of his heart slowed and his disjointed memories again formed a cohesive picture could he discern dream from truth. He had been gifted with a measure of foresight, and in the past his prophetic sleep had altered the course of the future. Thus, after assuring himself that there was no immediate validity to the vision, he grabbed it and fought to remember its detail.

Faramir squinted and struggled to regain control of his breathing. He pressed a palm to his forehead and found his skin clammy and his hair stuck to it in sweaty clumps. He had dreamt of Emyn Arnen, of black shadows slipping inside his home, of blood and death and terror. He had found himself trapped outside his bedroom door again, having been unable to open the portal and save his screaming wife. He had slammed his body over and over against the unyielding oak, leaving him bent with bruises as much as he was with rage. As he had in the world of truth, he had not given up in this twisted dream, smashing the door with every bit of his strength. And when it had flung open and he had fallen inside, Éowyn had been dead. Holis had never come.

 _What could this mean?_  he wondered once he had succeeded in calming himself enough to think clearly. Such a thing had, of course, never happened. The emperor had been there to protect his love. He had indeed come to guard her from the brutal swords and smiles of the enemy, offering her support when Faramir himself had failed in absentia. Because of Holis' intuition, Éowyn was safe and unharmed. Such a perversion of reality as the dream suggested had never happened.

The steward released a shaking breath and sank tiredly back into his bed. The space beside him where his wife normally slumbered was starkly vacant, the sheets cold and uncaring. As he lay there, he began to remember the terrible events of the day before. The ruined ceremony. The assassination attempt. Aragorn and Amrothos. Legolas. His throat unexpectedly constricted, and he rolled over, burying his face in the pillow. He had been so exhausted when he had finally retired yesterday that his foolish mind had actually entertained the wistful idea that somehow a good night's sleep could undo all the torment inflicted upon them. At the time it had seemed gloriously plausible and wonderfully simple. All he had needed was rest, and he had closed his eyes, comforted by a giddy delirium that had been too appealing to brush aside. Intoxicated by the silly thought, he had slipped into oblivion content that tomorrow would yield a better day.

 _A better day._  Bitter thoughts stampeded across his mind as he closed his eyes.  _A better day will not repair all that has thus far been ruined!_  Cloudy memories came to him, and he tiredly peered through the mists to watch again as the horrors gaily danced their miserable jig. After the disaster of Fallax's interrogation, Aragorn had fled to the healer's quarters to assist in caring for Legolas. Faramir's feet had carried him, for his mind at been elsewhere as he went about some idle duties. No matter how hard he had tried, he had been unable to rid his mind of the sight of Aragorn's violence. He had struggled to rationalize the moment of lunacy, claiming to the nagging voice within his heart that his king had been justified in taking his vengeance, that the Easterlings could not be left alone to possible again wreak such havoc upon Gondor. But his doubts would not be so easily placated. There was much more to this than he could see. He knew with every fiber of his being that a sinister plot lied behind Legolas' return. This was being orchestrated, though by whom and to what purpose he could not discern. Frustration had grown louder and more agonized than any rage, sorrow, or hesitation. Yet, he had not spoken of his concerns to anyone, stifling their needling whimpers with harsh denials. The exhausted, sorrowful mood of the evening had permitted no such nonsense. Furthermore, he did not want his unsubstantiated inklings to further complicate the situation. Minds were already burdened, hearts already destroyed. He could not have expected others to oblige him with interest and understanding when he himself could barely do so.

Standing uselessly in the healer's quarters had been a terrible torture. He could hardly bring himself to gaze upon the broken body in the bed as Legolas writhed and moaned his misery. As if such anguish was not sufficient, a tension had come between the small group of friends. Arwen and her brothers had remained behind when the men had ventured into the dungeons for Legolas could hardly afford to be left alone in his state. When the lords had returned, their silence had more than anything else signaled the dire events that had occurred, and the Elves knew immediately that it was Aragorn about whom the discontent settled. The king had worn a mask of stony fury, his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed, as he had worked to brew a medicinal broth to help prevent infection. The silence in the small quarters had made for an awkward experience, and often did eyes turn to Faramir, desperately imploring an explanation the steward could not bear to give. How could he have spoken about such a thing? How could he have expressed to them the depths of Aragorn's fiery madness, of their liege's wanton depravity, of the frightening gleam of violence in his once calm eyes? He had not been able to conjure up such equanimity, and quitting their company had been the only solution.

So he had fled to the vaults deep beneath the White Tower. He had spent much time there in his youth reading and studying the legends of old, for he had been an inquisitive child and the ancient tomes had held immeasurable value to a learning mind. Fond remembrance had offered little solace, as his mission had been one of angry research. Hours had passed as he had pulled rotting and dusty books from the shelves, and he had hunched over a small desk with only the flickering light of a tired candle for company as he had read. Minas Tirith held quite a large library, filled with the writings of Elves, Men, and Dwarves. And yet, though the night had escaped him, Faramir had been able to discover naught about this  _thral-gûl_. If it existed, these ancient writings held no information concerning it. Though this greatly bothered him, to say he had not expected such a failure would have been little more than a lie. Much of the evil secrets of Melkor and his successor remained hidden despite the innumerable years spent by many of the finest scholars in search of them. It was entirely possible this black magic had escaped their knowledge. Weary and melancholic, he had abandoned his apparently fruitless search. This had been a discouraging moment. It had been perhaps idealistic and fantastical to consider finding answers to be so trivial a task. So desperately did he yearn to help Legolas, but he was no healer. He was beginning to believe he was hardly even a thinker. He had exhausted himself with nothing to show for it, and at Éowyn's insistence, he had gone to bed.

His wife had never joined him. She had promised him she would soon after follow him, but as Faramir wrestled with his stormy emotions, he came to realize she had only vowed to take reprieve to ease his mind. Elladan and Elrohir had answered the request of Éomer to join the young king in his new mission with hesitant agreement, and the sons of Elrond had been forced to leave their patient in order to ready their forces. Without their assistance, Éowyn's presence had become terribly crucial, and as Legolas' fits forcefully came again, she had been needed to ease him. Faramir had thought to maybe better argue the merits of his remaining in the room, but fatigue had stolen the words from his lips, and with a look that silently pleaded for his wife's comfort, he had left them to what had undoubtedly been a long and horrible night. Quickly he had bathed, grateful to be free of the mess of sticky, pungent medicines from his topple over the table. Thankful to be rid of the blood covering his clothes and hands, both his own and Legolas'. After that he had slipped into bed. For a few minutes he had tossed and turned, feeling wretched for leaving her to a horrible duty, struggling to come down from the panicked rush. So much had happened… Too much, and too fast. How his heart ached! Images of things bloody and brutal tormented him. Tears had escaped eyes squeezed shut, tears hot with anguish and fury and guilt. These were the miseries put upon him, and he had feared he would lie forever in their grasp, denied a rest his mind and body so sorely needed.

But moments later he had indeed fallen asleep. And then the strange dream had come. Why had he conjured up such a grotesque perversion of reality? Although the thought of his wife slain was agonizing, he found it was strangely not that which so perturbed him. His disquiet concerned Holis, and though he did not completely understand it, he was certain something about that moment had not been right. He had been so frantic and wrought with shame and horror at the time that he had not really considered Holis' timely appearance, but now he was beginning to wonder. It seemed almost planned, as though the saving of Éowyn had been for some greater plot than simple compassion or morality. Why else would the emperor have insisted upon joining them as bait in Emyn Arnen if not to further some goal of his own?

Faramir pressed his palms to his eyes and groaned. What he proposed was ludicrous. Nobody could have so exactly enacted such a convoluted plot. The timing would have been extraordinarily complex, and it was ludicrous to think anyone capable of so accurately anticipating the actions of others. Holis would have had to know precisely when Faramir would leave his quarters to both delegate men to the task of attacking Éowyn and to appear there himself at the crucial moment. The steward was certain that Éowyn would have told him if anything aside from Holis' explanation had occurred, which meant the man was not only thorough, he was surreptitious and cunning.

These conclusions, of course, opened the proverbial floodgates, and Faramir's mind wandered momentarily. Was it possible this demon had planned this entire war for some sinister and evil purpose? Could he have so intricately plotted a façade so cunning that only now, only in hindsight, were the flaws apparent? Holis certainly was an amazing man; many times in the short period they had known him had he demonstrated his searing intelligence and unsettling control. It was almost as if his temperamental display was an act, carefully planned and construed to muddle those about him. But was he capable of the sort of omnipotent foresight and patience required to so conscientiously build this trap? Was anyone so cold, so calculating? Many had died in this bloody war. If indeed this had all been some ruse from the beginning, Holis had happily sacrificed more than half his forces in a gruesome and callous show. That number grew even more horrifying when he considered the number of Easterlings that had been used and then murdered for the sake of setting the perfect stage. The man was cruel, that was easily observable. He was tainted by blackness, for he had been a Lieutenant of Sauron. But was he so fanatically malicious and selfish as to not care about the loss of life his little charade had caused?

Faramir could not make himself believe that. Still, the strange little dream ached within him, troubling his already floundering sense of peace. It was desperately trying to tell him something, but he was not sure what. Frustrated, he closed his eyes and slammed a fist into the pillows. Confound this all! He was not sure of  _anything_ anymore. He wished so vehemently that none of this had ever happened, that he could simply slip into the past. That he was waiting patiently in Emyn Arnen for Legolas to arrive so that they might discuss that mundane housing issue that had been brushed aside for these violent causes. He felt so useless. The guilty murk within him bubbled and swelled, and he thought for a moment he might choke on his rage. He was weary of this vague foreboding and the outlandish claims his mind summoned to substantiate it. He was tired of being uncertain and tied to inaction by hesitation. He was beginning to wonder how reliable his own senses were, for if yesterday's near fatal mistake in the healer's quarters was any indication, they were failing him. He was beginning to question his own perception of time. It was terribly difficult to draw a straight line from this moment to when this nightmare had begun. Yes, a nightmare. That was what this was. That explained the disjointed sense of time, the strangeness of his senses, the incredulity of it all. A nightmare. And if he slept again, perhaps it would end… Perhaps this time…

_Time._

His eyes snapped open and he jumped from the bed. Panic pulsed over him as he glanced to the window, dizzy and disoriented. The sun was bright as it spilled inside the room. He prayed he was not too late!

Éomer and Imrahil had planned to leave early, and from the looks of it, the morning had already escaped him.

* * *

His initial panic proved a bit premature. After a rushed attempt to make himself appear presentable, he had run to the stables, hoping to speak to his friends before they left on their bloody crusade. He did not know what he wished to say to them. He was torn over the matter, the ragged ends of his split heart pulsing angrily at his indecision. Part of him was afraid, burned by the image of Legolas' misery, scarred by the violent display of wrath from Aragorn, tormented by nameless, formless phantoms of future toil. Part of him was fiery and furious, and though this rage disturbed him, he was simply too angry to stifle its violent desires. He could not deny that he yearned for vengeance, for some sort of justification and absolution. Disgust was not a strong enough deterrent, and he wished to expunge the world of the evil of the Easterlings as much as any other. Had he been of a better mind, had not the cruel grasp of guilt and horror so mangled his spirit, he might have found such a mindset utterly repulsive and abandoned it. But his heart bled. He wanted justice for all that had been done to Gondor. For all that had been done to Legolas. If the Elf survived…  _Nay, do not think it! He will live! He will get better! Ai, please… We cannot lose him… Not again…_

The truth was cold and hard and offered no consolation. How could they begin to treat an ailment about which they knew nothing? How could they slow his fading when they did not understand? How could they save his spirit when they could not even ease his physical pain? The king was a skilled healer. Faramir's own life had been saved by Aragorn's talent. The queen and her brothers were also well-versed in the arts of medicine. They were the best and brightest Middle Earth boasted in an era without the magic of the Elf Lords. Faramir had seen their fear, their dismay and helpless confusion. They did not know how to help the fallen prince. And if they did not know…

He nearly collided with a stable hand. The sudden jolt broke him from his upsetting daze, and he murmured an apology, praying the tears he felt burning his tired eyes were not discernible. He despised this weakness! He wished for control over his thoughts and emotions, but his resolve was beaten and battered by anguish and exhaustion. Only with a great measure of will was he able to again regain his floundering composure. He took a deep breath to cleanse his shuddering spirit of its misery, straightened his throbbing form, and continued through the stables.

The place was a mess of people, horses, and supplies. Everywhere boys rushed bearing messages or valuables, and soldiers cluttered the streets beyond as they assumed formation and checked their weapons. Mounts were tugged into the sunlight, the horses none too pleased to again be rousted for battle. The banners of Dol Amroth and Rohan were being raised by their bearers, but they were limp and lifeless, as though weighed down by the blood shed on their behalf and frightened of how much more might be spilt. The clamor was deafening, for shouts, neighs, and clanks rent the air in throb of noise. The scene was horrifically familiar to Faramir, and he knew why immediately. It had been the same when they had left for Emyn Nimsîr and the same again before Emyn Arnen. The air had been taut at those moments with a staunch hope that that particular campaign would be the last. But such grace had not come upon them. Faramir was beginning to wonder if this war would ever end, if this instance of preparation could possibly mark the last battle. Despite all the evidence to support Gondor's final victory, doubt filled him, and it tasted terrible.

Tired eyes easily picked the forms of Imrahil and Éomer from the crowd of men beyond the bright entrance to the stables. The steward weaved his way through soldiers and servants, and a moment later he reached his comrades.

Éomer's stern face loosened a bit at his brother-in-law's tardy appearance. The young king's eyes were rimmed in shadow, and his face seemed pale and drawn. A glint of fatigue shone in his eyes, dulling them in sadness and anger. It was clear he had not slept. "Late is the hour, my brother, but if you come to join us, we will wait."

The prospect did not sit well with Faramir, and he winced at the words. He actually felt nauseous with the heavy daylight beating down upon him. In that short instance, he found himself truly considering the other's invitation. Surely these misgivings about the stains of revenge and the agendas of Holis were demons wrought from too much thought and not enough sleep. Perhaps it would ease his guilty conscience to hunt and kill those responsible for Legolas' condition. Ire rushed over him like the sun's blasting warmth, and he welcomed its fiery promise of repentance and retribution. Energy returned to his limbs, and he breathed heat and power.

But the appeal of such a choice lasted but a moment, for the cooling voice of reason and doubt silenced the screams of vengeance. He had sworn to the queen that he would never abandon the king, even if the moment turned dangerous and dire. If he did not agree with Aragorn's choices, he would still remain and support his actions. Even more than this, though, was the terrible thought of slaying out of rage and grief. There was blood on his hands, he knew. The blood of his men who had died. The blood of those at Cair Andros and Linhir who he had failed to protect. Legolas' blood. But blood could not be washed away with more blood. "Nay, Éomer. I have not come to join you."

Imrahil shifted his weight, and his armor clanked with the motion. A blue surcoat covered the blinding silver of the steel plate mail. "It is just as well," declared the Prince of Dol Amroth softly. Gray eyes were narrowed with spite and hurt. "I fear after last night's…  _incident_  the king will need you."

"Surely you do not fault Aragorn for claiming that monster's life," Éomer said, his tone surprised.

Imrahil did not answer immediately, his gaze locked with his nephew's. Faramir saw within those cloudy eyes a war not dissimilar from the steward's own, a great conflict of fury and fear. It was clear that Imrahil did not overly agree with this present mission. There was some merit in it, of course. But was that merit merely a mask for a greater, selfish goal? A cover for an excuse to maim and murder? These things plagued the older man, and Faramir felt relieved to know he was not alone in his doubts.

Éomer had grown irritated in their silence. "They destroyed two villages! They raped and slaughtered! They instigated a violent conflict between the Free Peoples and a renegade force! They abducted Legolas and…" His voice failed him, and he looked down. His shoulders tensed, and he shook his head. "We cannot allow these – these  _men_  to threaten innocents. We must push every last one of them back to the Haradwraith, to Mordor if need be!"

But Imrahil only sighed. He closed his eyes and sagged tiredly. "It should not have come to this," he declared softly.

"Then stay," Faramir suddenly implored. He could not restrain his worries any longer, and they spilled from his mouth as he stepped forward and grasped his uncle's shoulder. "Do not engage in this! It will not end well. I know it."

Imrahil gave a little, rueful chuckle. "I doubt this one campaign will make such a difference, my nephew."

"A dark hour comes," Faramir insisted. "Please, you must listen to me! This quest serves naught but our hurting hearts and idle hands. Legolas would not want this–"

"This is about more than Legolas," Imrahil snapped. A touch of anger came to his normally calm and pleasant voice, and his eyes flashed in the sun wildly. "One of my sons is dead. Another is gravely wounded." Faramir winced and looked away. Shame shook him. He had not thought to consider Imrahil's own ruined family. Losing a son was a pain with which Faramir was not acquainted, and he hoped the occasion would never arise in which he would be. Imrahil was a strong man, but now Faramir saw the agony put upon him. Cracks had appeared in the man's cool visage, and in once proud and vibrant eyes the steward saw the same glint of misery, the same staggering madness, that presently clouded the gaze of their miserable king.

Presently, as though weary of the throes of sadness, the man turned away his glare. "It is well they are stopped. So much suffering has come to our people that I find I care little for methods but mostly for results. I never wish to mourn another child." The pain edging his voice stabbed Faramir sharply, and the steward cringed. A silent moment escaped them, the unwanted truth hovering and anxiously awaiting its chance to make itself known. "And should they find a way to bring Legolas back to us," began Imrahil in a whisper of sad conclusion, "he will never be the same."

The words hurt. Faramir refused to accept them as finality, as a fate unchangeable. He softly declared, "I have faith. He is strong."

Éomer had cooled during the exchange, but his jaw was set and his gaze was hard, seemingly more determined than previously. "They are the orders of your king, Faramir, and the wishes of a mourning friend. Do you not see the worth in obeying them?"

"Worth, yes. But I question his motives. I question any decision made in the heat of anger and anguish. I question his mood and his mind, for he is hardly the man I love and respect. He has not been since Legolas was taken. And though I do not blame him and hardly fault him, I remain wary." Faramir's eyes narrowed. "I am Steward of Gondor, Éomer. It is a station I do not take lightly. It is my duty above all else to protect this nation and her King. I stand beside him. I offer my blade, my hands, and my mind to his cause. But I will not participate in this campaign. I cannot." The steward released a long breath, and his stony expression slid away. "Perhaps my mind is simply overrun with guilt and fatigue, but I feel that there is much yet to uncover in this war. Should another twist present itself, I must be available to fulfill my responsibilities to my nation."

At last Éomer seemed satisfied. The young king nodded. "Then wish us well, and we will do you the same." His voice was empty, but his eyes glimmered in sadness and faint hope. Hope that this would be enough to end this all, that the pain could be released in an act of vengeance and justice, that they would meet again in peace.

Faramir cared not for decorum at that moment. Too quickly had loved ones been taken, and always without warning. He swept his friend into his embrace, and then did the same for Imrahil. A welcomed moment of brotherly affection between the three served to lessen their pains and tensions. It entertained hopes that were too fragile to be uttered. If there was nothing more to this situation than what was now apparent, then this act would expunge whatever remained of the threat. Regardless of ulterior motives or selfish, vengeful ambitions, such a triumph was redeeming and alluring. The guilt that would maybe plague them years later would be a small penalty for a lasting victory, for restoration of security and prosperity.

Elladan and Elrohir appeared then. Faramir had never before seen the sons of Elrond garbed in chain mail and armed, and where they had once appeared gentle and approachable, they were now formidable and dangerous. Faramir had become accustomed to Legolas' peaceful force in battle. Though the Elf prince was an amazing warrior, he was never forbidding, and when his feet danced and his bowstring sang, he was artful, vibrant and warm in a splendor of grace and elegance. The steward had nearly forgotten that his friend was somewhat unique among the Firstborn. Elladan and Elrohir approached as powerful creatures that had too often seen blood and wished no more of it, cold and calculating, and their eyes were empty.

"The Elves stand ready," Elladan declared as they reached their compatriots. He offered Faramir a greeting nod. His eyes glazed a bit in contemplation, as though he was remembering a point about which he had meant to speak. "After giving it some thought, I find it not at all surprising that there was no writing of this  _thral-gûl_  in Gondor's vaults. The Dark Lord wielded many hidden and vile magics against the Eldar, or so explained our father. Sauron prized his secrets. If he did not wish them learned, it is doubtful they were." Then he shook his head almost regretfully. "Perhaps there are answers yet to be had. Though none of the prisoners yielded any information of Legolas' condition, there may be others we have not captured that know of it. From Aragorn's description of this Fallax character, I find it doubtful he had the capacity to use such a potent curse. Few would have the will and strength to grasp such a thing. Perhaps the one who laid this shadow upon Legolas remains abroad." The hopeful note in his voice was unmistakable. It was clear that he was grasping whatever faith he could. No one was prepared to simply let Legolas go.

Faramir digested what the Elf said, and he found that he too could garner some belief that there was yet a chance. Perhaps that filthy man had been speaking the truth. He had not answered Aragorn's questions because he had simply not known. He had not been the one to perform this dark deed. The thought at once heartened and discouraged him. If not Fallax, then who? From Holis' explanation of the  _thral-gûl_ , it appeared only those in high standing with the Dark Lord could have possibly known of its existence, let alone how to effectively use it. How many such men could there be?

Of course, the obvious answer lay before his very eyes: Holis himself. Yet Holis had been here, outside of Minas Tirith or in the city or with them in Emyn Arnen.  _Could there be another?_

He decided to think on this later. At the moment, Elladan and Elrohir were saluting him farewell, and he returned the gesture. Elrohir offered a small smile. "Do not fear," he said. "We will return in time to stop this."

The friends shared a final look, and then the host departed. For better or for worse, Faramir found he could not say. However, Minas Tirith had suddenly become empty, and though the day was bright and warm, it felt dark beyond any doubt.

* * *

The day wore slowly. The morning was nearly over by the time Faramir returned to the Citadel. After the army had departed, a sour mood had come upon him, and he had wished for nothing more than to simply see his wife. He had not yet heard of Legolas' condition, and every passing moment he remained away from the healer's quarters amplified his worry. He had been sidetracked numerous times in his attempts to rejoin the focus of his hurting thoughts. He found that Aragorn had been rather reticent in directions to his lords and advisors, and Faramir had dutifully assumed the position of leader. He had planned the defense of the city. Given the recent infiltration of the enemy, Minas Tirith's security had proven less than sufficient. Guard shifts were augmented, and the gates had been greatly fortified. The steward had coordinated with a tense Beregond, the Captain of the White Company receiving Faramir's orders with much relief. Most of the city knew something was greatly amiss, for the silence of a king once strong and compassionate was painfully evident. Beregond had not questioned his lord on the nature of the dilemma, and Faramir was grateful for the other man's discretion. He was sure this sensitive matter should be kept quiet for as long as possible, as he was not prepared to deal with the citizens' reaction to Legolas' apparent return and betrayal. Moreover, he doubted he had the strength to speak plainly of the matter, and he did not want to appear weak before his men. It eased Faramir greatly when Beregond simply received directions and went quickly about implementing the increased defensive provisions. This was at least one piece of this situation he could control.

Of course, one distraction had quickly become another and another. Ioreth had spoken to him privately about Amrothos and the remaining prisoners in the Houses of Healing, but she was too keen not to perceive the truth. She had helped the sons of Elrond acquire the herbs they had needed for Legolas, and though their intentions had never been spoken, she knew that someone truly suffered within the Citadel. Faramir had said little of it, unable to conjure forth the bravery to face the horrid reality. Sensing his anguish, she had only offered him a knowing, comforting look and assured him that all would somehow be well.

_Somehow. I have no faith in fate. Not any more._

Now he had finally escaped the duties and responsibilities. He stood outside the closed doors of the healer's quarters and struggled to catch his breath. The guards stationed in the hall made a point of not looking in his direction, but he felt their trepidation. At the moment the silence from within the room was positively relieving. These men had heard terrible screams rent the air all through the night, and soft weeping had marked the moments between the bouts. People had rushed to and from that small space, and ever was there an awkward tension driving them, a panicked desperation in each breath and step. Faramir supposed seeing him stand there nervously was such a change from the activity of late that the soldiers could barely maintain their attention to their task.

Slowly he grasped the knob, and the metal felt cold to his fingers. He lingered, his heart pounding and his breath short. A cold sweat claimed him. What would he find inside? Despite himself, he was afraid to face the truth. He had anticipated this moment throughout the day, but now he was hesitating. His will failed him. Last night he had made such a blunder of himself. He had nearly ended Legolas' life with his mistake. With his many mistakes. He did not feel worthy to be among those who had truly helped the fallen Elf, and he was frightened of again facing the brutality his weak fingers had loosed upon his friend. Eventually, he grew tired of his own anxiety, and the need to see Legolas, even as marred as he was, became too pressing to be ignored. He twisted the knob and stepped inside.

Much to his surprise, the room was nearly empty. Beside the bed a single chair was drawn, and a hunched form Faramir recognized to be Gimli was slumped in it. Light streamed inside the room, but the afternoon's illumination was without cheer. The air was a bit warm and stuffy, and it smelled strongly of pungent herbs. Some of the clutter had been cleaned in his absence, the stands and tables freshly cleared and washed. The broken mess from his tumble over one of the pieces of furniture yesterday had been swept away, and the general disorder of linens, bottles, and bandages had been straightened. Even so, the scent of blood and sweat had not been entirely masked, and the specter of death lurked yet in the shadows.

Gimli lifted his head slightly at Faramir's quiet entrance. The Dwarf's empty eyes followed the steward's approach. Tentatively Faramir moved toward the foot of the bed, his eyes never leaving its occupant. Legolas was completely still aside from the slow rise and fall of his chest. He lay atop fresh linens, dressed in a loose tunic and breeches that did little to conceal the tremendous number of bandages wrapped about his chest and body. His eyes were tightly sealed shut and ringed in blackness, and though his face had been cleaned of blood and dirt, he still seemed dark and dull. Dried lips were slack as a weak breath rattled between them. He appeared little more than a shell, a body that was dying slowly without a soul to bolster it. A fading light. Faramir's breath was lost to him a moment as he wondered again how something so brutal could have happened. It truly was a nightmare. An unending nightmare.

"Your Lady has gone to rest, Faramir, if it is she who you seek." Gimli's voice startled him, and he jerked. He met the Dwarf's gaze and found the black orbs tired and forlorn. "The Queen as well sought a reprieve. As for Aragorn, he was finally dragged away by some pressing matter of state." The Dwarf's normally rolling, boisterous voice was uncharacteristically subdued. His face was long with exhaustion, and his eyes were red.

The steward had never before seen Gimli so beaten, so crestfallen. "Perhaps you should sleep as well, my friend," he suggested softly. He truly felt the guilty wretch for so easily embracing weariness after returning from the libraries yesterday. The others had obviously taken no rest. Was he the only fool that had slept in Minas Tirith last night? What sort of friend did that make him?  _The selfish kind. The cowardly kind._  "I can keep vigil a bit."

Gimli was still for a moment, but then he sighed. His shoulders slumped. "I will not leave him." His stern tone left no room for discussion. The stout warrior's thick fingers were wrapped about Legolas'. Whether it was for the Elf's comfort or the Dwarf's own, Faramir could not say. He suspected it was gesture meant to offer strength to both.

They were silent for a moment. Faramir returned his attention to the ailing Elf, watching as Legolas' eyes moved furiously behind the closed lids. The archer was not still in his slumber, though his painful tension was much reduced from earlier. Every so often he would breathe heavier and twitch or shift. These sudden movements were unnatural to Faramir's eyes; it appeared almost as if some external omnipotent force was moving the limp limbs of a doll. "How long as he been like this?"

"Hours. The last of the fits was…difficult." The Dwarf breathed deeply, his eyes half-lidded with misery. "The Queen thinks he dreams, but that makes little sense to me. How does one dream without memories, without fears and loves and ambitions, without one's spirit? I am hardly a healer, but it seems to me he is searching." The roving eyes continued in their sightless quest, and Faramir could not help but agree with Gimli's assessment. It did seem as though the Elf was desperately seeking something. Rest from this terrible, intangible assault upon his body, perhaps. But, even if it was simply wishful thinking, Faramir was unable to dissuade his tired mind from the strange concept that Legolas' body was simply searching for his soul.

The steward's fatigue returned to bother him, and his legs and feet abruptly began to fiercely ache. He took another chair from the desk area and dragged it beside Legolas' bed. He sat in it gingerly, and then he took Legolas' other hand in his own. This was the first occasion he had truly  _touched_  Legolas since his devastating return. The hand was tense and it quivered slightly. The fingers pressed ever so gently into Faramir's palm, as if to assure a languishing mind that indeed a presence offered comfort in the darkest of hours. Legolas' skin was smooth and cool, and there was still great power in his hand. A thousand painful questions and rushed thoughts suddenly came to Faramir, and he spoke of them, unwilling to suppress their anger any longer. "I want to think that… that it was not him. It seems so impossible! The damage done to him would have felled any man, nay, any Elf, but he moved, Gimli, faster and stronger than I have ever seen him move before. Did he not feel the pain? Were his wounds not crippling?"

The Dwarf's face was dark. "Elven endurance is fathomless. I confess I once thought little of his kind, but in the years I have known him, he has silently taught me much of resilience. It is a blessing in as much as it is a curse. With great strength comes long life and great pride in turn, and I have found this combination to be infuriating. Had this fool Elf only listened at Emyn Nimsîr… Had he only rested his hurting body! He would not have ridden into battle. He would not have fallen!" Gimli released a heated, short breath. "He always expects too much of himself. He cannot accept his own failings. He attempts at times to shift the blame to his father, but he and I both know it is his own shortcoming. Though he tries to be, he is not perfect."

They were silent for a moment, Faramir's mind desperately pulling apart the convoluted mystery. "Nay, but he would have been the perfect assassination." Gimli stiffened; it was clear he did not care for this particular conversation, but he made no effort to stop it. "This  _thral-gûl_  imprinted upon him a single mission: to kill the King of Gondor. He has an intimate knowledge of both Aragorn and the Citadel. He fights like none other. His strength and speed are unparalleled. If they were to send one person to effectively murder the king, Legolas was the ideal choice. And Legolas is someone to whom Aragorn would never raise his hand." Faramir sighed and shook his head. "That being the case, why jeopardize the success of this plan by brutalizing him so? Their gamble working in their favor does not negate the risk. They could not have been sure Legolas' strength or resistance to duress would long last him. I know little of the sort of… violation done to him, but I doubt even an Elf could walk, much less run and jump as he did, so damaged without pain hindering him. Why take such a chance?"

Gimli's face was malevolent as he grumbled, "To break him."

That answer did not satisfy Faramir. "I cannot imagine Legolas succumbing to them, no matter their brutality. He loves Aragorn as he does his own kin. Never would he willingly allow himself to be so manipulated."

"Are you suggesting they… that they did this to him merely to enrage us?" Gimli's voice was little more than a choked hiss of furious abhorrence.

Faramir squeezed Legolas' hand as a spasm rocked the Elf's limp body. "I see no other explanation that accounts for the strangeness of this all! If they had this – this weapon against Elves, why first try to defeat his spirit with physical harm? They must have known they did not have the time or means to break him. They have known everything about us, and they have anticipated and calculated so conscientiously from the very beginning, that I cannot believe they would assume they could torture a spirit so strong as Legolas into submission in a matter of days! The  _thral-gûl_  was not some last resort. The poisoning. Velathir's involvement. Emyn Nimsîr! If they went through so much intricate planning, why risk losing it by settling the fruits of their labor with such debilitating injuries?"

"But why?" Gimli asked. His dark eyes swirled angrily with these considerations. Faramir did not doubt the Dwarf had pondered these things before, for Gimli was keen and smart, and never did he abandon the chance to best any in a game of thought.

Faramir sighed and grasped Legolas' hand tighter. "I do not know."

"You  _do_  know, Faramir. You just do not want to see it!" Gimli snapped. Faramir looked up sharply and met the other's stony gaze. There was great malice and sorrow in that rough voice, and though it was not directed at him, the steward could not stifle a shudder. "It is the same cruelty, the same disgusting cowardice, they have always displayed! It is this filthy excess! They have destroyed him in the most horrible ways imaginable simply because they could! They wished to inflict pain and misery unending, and they have! They truly have!" The Dwarf grunted and looked down, but the tears came all the same. They dripped from his averted face and splashed upon the bed, each with the seeming strength of a flood. "I have sat here and watched him suffer. I have sat holding his hand and felt him grasp for something beyond his reach. So desperately I try to tell myself that he does not know this pain, that the Legolas we love and cherish is above this misery. But my eyes and ears and hands do not believe so convenient a lie. I think he yet fights, but I cannot be sure if the grasping of his fingers to mine are struggles against an unwanted destiny or mere reflexes of a dying, senseless body. Despite my… my damnable optimism, I wonder if we do more harm than good by denying him death…"

Watery eyes looked to Faramir, begging for answers, for resolution to these painful doubts. "Would he want to live knowing what has been done to him?" The desire for an answer was ardent and painful, and Faramir felt guilty for being unable to provide one. They sat still and quiet for a long moment, that horrid question plaguing them both relentlessly. It hung on the stuffy air and sunk venomous teeth into hearts struggling to rise above despair. Then Gimli grunted and loosed his hand from the Elf's to wipe away his tears. "Bah. Of course he would."

Faramir smiled weakly. The thought was encouraging. If Gimli could maintain his faith, then there was hope yet to be had. This bolstered his resolve enough to speak of another matter that disturbed him greatly. "Gimli," he began. The Dwarf sniffed and looked up at him, his gruff demeanor immediately replacing the previous moment of weakness. Now that he had the other's attention, his will momentarily failed him and suddenly he could not find a way to say what he wished. Inquisitive eyes regarded him expectedly, and he finally managed to force the words from his uncooperative lips. "Aragorn murdered the prisoner last night."

Gimli did not respond to that immediately. Faramir feared what his reaction would be. Of everyone, the Dwarf he expected to show the least restraint when it came to Legolas' retribution. But Gimli surprised him. "I feared as much, though no one bothered to tell me." The statement was sad and bitter. "The lad loses a bit more of himself to this misery with every blow done to his nation. Legolas' illness blinds him, and he sees naught but red vengeance. Last night he remained here, holding the Elf through the worst of the fits, never saying a word and never looking elsewhere. He is gone from us."

Faramir shook his head sadly. "We must bring him back," he said tightly. "I know he suffers because of Legolas, but he cannot abandon his nation now! He cannot send men on a quest for blood!"

"You cannot control him, Faramir," Gimli declared lowly. "It is the worst plight. He functions as a suffering brother and hurting friend, and he is acting through his office to exact the revenge he feels is necessary." The Dwarf sighed. "Perhaps it is just as well. The Easterlings certainly deserve punishment. I cannot say, given the chance, that I would not do the same as Aragorn has. Can you?"

The steward honestly pondered the question for a moment. He had wanted to immediately answer that he would have never so blindly sought revenge, but the words tasted wrong, and he was forced to halt in his hasty declaration. Legolas and Aragorn were more brothers than simple friends, and if Boromir had ever been so utterly destroyed… Or if those demons had touched Éowyn… "No, I cannot."

Gimli's head bobbed slightly. Legolas moaned a bit and shifted, drawing their attention from these matters. The Dwarf laid a broad hand on Legolas' brow, and the archer's tense expression visibly relaxed. To Faramir, it seemed remarkable. The Elf's breathing became softer, slower, and he seemed to sink further into a restive state. Regardless about what Holis had said of the dangers in promoting unconsciousness, Legolas' peace at the moment was truly relieving. Gimli's lips twisted in the smallest of smiles. He was surely pleased with himself for being the source of comfort to their ailing friend. "I wonder if he knows we are with him. I believe he does."

Faramir remembered again the moment upon the balcony, when he had pinned the prince's struggling form beneath him. When the black veil of the  _thral-gûl_  had parted and revealed blue again in Legolas' eyes. The Elf had known him. The chains of black magic that bound him to this cruel fate were not unbreakable. The steward had not thought of it as such at the time, but now it seemed to him that Legolas was indeed  _fighting_. That the Elf was trapped within himself somewhere. That he was not giving up this seemingly hopeless fight. And if he was not admitting defeat, then they could not either.

There was a knock at the door. Both friends turned as the portal slowly creaked open. It was a page, the same, if Faramir was not mistaken, who had been sent to summon Emperor Holis the day before. The boy seemed a bit more confident this time. "My Lord Steward? The King requests your presence, sir. The Haradrim appear to be preparing to return to their territory."

Faramir stood quickly and glanced to Gimli, confusion creasing his brow. Surprise rattled him. He had heard nothing of this! "When? At this moment?" he demanded, his voice frantic.

The servant shook his head dumbly. "I am sorry, my Lord, but I do not know. King Elessar asks that you meet him at the Gateway immediately to confer with the Emperor on parting matters."

 _Parting matters?_  "Tell the King I shall join him shortly," Faramir answered once he recovered from the shock. The lad nodded and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Faramir stood still for a moment, reeling and wondering, his numb mind struggling to make sense of this newest development. He looked to Gimli, shaking his head. "Did you know aught of this?"

The Dwarf's jaw clenched. "Nay, but I care little for them. Let them go, if they wish. The sight of a horse's departing rear will never again bring me such joy."

Faramir actually chuckled. "Then perhaps you should join me."

"I dare not. If that man makes one more casual remark about Legolas, I will belt him." Gimli grunted and wrinkled his nose as if the idea could somehow smell rotten. "He is a liar, Faramir. He does not mean well."

 _You tell me nothing that I do not already fear, my friend._  But Faramir did not speak this thought. Instead he walked about the bed and clasped Gimli on the shoulder. The Dwarf laid his hand over the man's and nodded at the unspoken token of friendship. Then Faramir leaned over the bed and took Legolas' face between his hands. A chill infiltrated the skin of his fingertips and stung him, but he did not pull away. He kissed the Elf's brow gently and then whispered, "We will reach you, my friend. This I swear."

Legolas gave no indication that he heard Faramir's vow, but it eased the steward greatly to think that he had. Faramir closed his eyes briefly as he stood tall and drew a deep breath. He let the warmth of hope claim him. They could make this right. They surely could! Then he exhaled and opened his eyes. The moment to breathe was over.

It was time to act.


	27. A Mistake Once Made

The sun was just beginning to sink. Faramir was surprised that the day had escaped him so easily. Hours ago the passing of minutes had been a painfully slow experience, one that had made long his misery and despair. In retrospect, time had slipped by him, and the day had been wasted. As he had rushed through the Citadel, his mind raced with blurry thoughts and concerns. There was much he should have done, he realized as he emerged from the haze of doldrums that had taken him captive. Too much. Men stopped him in the halls seeking approval for all sorts of orders, actions, and requests concerning supply shipments, guard shifts, housing appropriation, and other such mundane matters. Somehow it had escaped his attention that Minas Tirith was still badly reeling in shock. He cursed himself even more. Gondor could not afford to have both of its leaders in a state of disrepair, not when so much was at stake. It was slightly encouraging to find that the lesser lords had governed relatively well in their absence. But executive matters could not be decided by any less than the king, and Aragorn had seemingly shunned his duties. Advisors and pages had surrounded Faramir, and he had no time to appropriately see to their issues. Faramir felt rather poorly for pushing them aside when these unfortunate people had likely waited many hours to confer with him, and he had no one to blame for his guilt than himself. Still, even though he was as much responsible for allowing the nation to slip into disorder as Aragorn was, he could not help but blame the other man. He was angry, and he felt he had the right to be.

After quickly dispatching with as many of the duties as he possibly could, his feet had carried him to his quarters. This particular decision had been more instinctual than anything. Even though time had constrained him, he had desperately needed to see his wife and assure himself that she was well. Much to his relief, he had found her asleep in their bed. His heart had panged in misery to see the dried trails of tears upon her cheeks and the damp blotches upon the pillow. She had remained stoic for the benefit of the others, and in private she had vented her sorrow and horror. Guilt had bitten had him for not being present to comfort her. He had brushed a wayward lock of her flaxen hair from her pale face and kissed her soft lips. It had eased him greatly to know she rested at last. He had prayed she would find peace in her dreams, for she certainly deserved it. Then, his racing mind had validated this seemingly selfish trip by directing his body to acquire his weapons. He did not know why he would need them, but it made him feel slightly more secure.

Now he was walking briskly through the White City. The late autumn afternoon was chilly, quite unlike the warmth of the morning's blaring sun. Weeks had flown past him, and summer was leaving Middle-Earth. The skies had changed, it seemed. No longer did the great, white, billowing puffs of clouds line the horizon. Now they had become wispy tendrils of snowy gray, lacing the deep blue as a veil hid the true nature of a face. It was that strange mood that the later weeks of fall often assumed in which one could never truly predict the comings and goings of storms and winds. Precipitation was as fickle as gales, and a threatening cloud could release a cold driving rain or a bitter snow. Again he marveled at how skewed his perception of time had become. How many weeks had passed since Cair Andros? Since he had been wounded? It was not something he had previously let trouble him, but now it spoke in a plaintive whisper. In those days he had been unconscious, he had lost connection with the world. So much could have happened, and he would have been aware of none it lest he was told. How tenuous was man's grasp upon reality! Summer was gone, and now autumn was beginning to fade. He remembered none of it.

As he passed, the denizens of the city stopped and stared. A dampened tone of fear saturated the crisp air, and the people were tense and angry. The streets were nosy with the day's affairs, but Faramir seemed to hear every sour bit of conversation as though each word was perfectly and loudly annunciated beside his ear.

"Why has the King not addressed us? What is going on?"

"He is a coward. The wound was not serious."

"Do you suppose the Haradrim are behind this?"

"We should never have trusted them!"

"A great host left this morn."

"For what purpose? I thought we had won this bloody war!"

"It was the Elf. He wounded King Elessar. I was there! I saw it!"

"What?"

"Vile creatures! Demons! They  _would_  betray us!"

"Prince Legolas is dying, and he is all the King cares about. What of his people? What of his duty? He cannot leave us like this!"

"I told you the Firstborn weren't to be trusted. Didn't I say that? Didn't I?"

Faramir cringed and struggled to maintain his focus. He did not like the confusion and budding anarchy he was hearing. It had been naïve and foolish, he supposed, to imagine Legolas' actions could be kept secret. Too many people had been present when they had brought the Elf to the healer's quarters inside the Citadel. Though the area was far smaller and often less congested than the Houses of Healing, it was inconceivable to hope that everyone present had had the sense not to engage in gossip and rumor. He was momentarily glad that the Elves had decided to join the campaign of Imrahil and Éomer. Had they remained in the White City, it would have only terribly complicated an already precarious situation. He liked the idea of dealing with a nation accusing the Firstborn of treason and treachery about as much as he wished to contend with Elves furious over the loss of their leader in a conflict not their own. Aragorn was the link between the two races, as he was trusted as a liaison and as a leader. The king would need to address the tense matter before unrest sundered the already weakening ties. They could not afford to lose the allegiance of the Elves, and it pained Faramir to imagine Legolas' anger over such a division. Such dishonor and derision sullied all they had together hoped to achieve.

He managed to brush these thoughts aside as he approached the Gateway. Aside from the garrison of newly positioned soldiers guarding it, the area was remarkably empty. The banners of the king atop the massive wall waved weakly in the cold wind. Faramir absently brushed the dust from his clothing and smoothed his tunic free of wrinkles as he stepped to the massive entryway.

He spotted his king, the emperor, and a few other men standing with a group of horses near the grand opening. Aragorn turned and greeted him with a cold nod. "You are late," he said lowly and evenly, his voice terse and restrained.

Anger coursed through Faramir at the man's reprimand.  _You hardly have the right to scold me, Aragorn, as it is I who carry your weight!_  But he did not say this. "I apologize for my tardiness, my Lords." He offered no excuse. He would not disgrace himself with an admission of fault or a shallow repentance.

"It is no bother, sir," Holis said, glancing between the king and his steward with careful eyes. Faramir had no doubt that the man had noted their dissension, and the young lord immediately quelled his anger. He did not trust the other enough to allow him the knowledge that the leadership of Gondor was floundering dangerously. Holis then looked to the others about them, of whom Faramir until this moment had not taken note. Beregond met his lord's eyes briefly, silently communicating his suspicion and dislike of the situation. He held the reins of his own horse as well as Hasufel's, and confusion spiked inside Faramir at seeing his mount present, saddled, and apparently ready for riding. Beside Beregond stood Irehadde. The Dúnadan guarded his opinion of the situation a bit better, his face stern and his eyes narrowed and unyielding. "I would… most appreciate a chance to speak with you both alone."

Faramir could have hit himself. The emperor clearly wished for them to escort him back to his people and converse with them in transit. Beregond and Irehadde meant to join as protectors to their lords, and Holis was requesting that they remain in Minas Tirith. Misgiving and annoyance immediately took root in Faramir's already suspicious spirit. What could Holis possibly mean to say to them that required such strict privacy? Moreover, was it safe enough to indulge their curiosity and discover the nature of these final matters? Faramir did not know. As much as he was growing to despise the enigmatic man, he could not, as usual, find an acceptable reason for such hatred and doubt. After all, Holis seemed to trust them even if they did not harbor the same feeling towards him. It had not really occurred to Faramir until that moment, but the emperor  _had_  entered the Citadel, the heart of his once hated enemy's territory, unarmed and totally at their mercy. He had done so willingly, and whatever else he had intended, he had indeed helped them unconditionally. It would be rude not to extend to him now the same token of faith.

Beside that, Holis was alone. Should the man try anything, he would be outnumbered, two to one.

Aragorn had clearly been considering the same thing. He looked to Faramir questioningly, and for a moment all the contention between them disappeared and they connected. The steward nodded slightly, understanding that his friend was seeking his guidance. "That is well," finally answered the king with a bit of a sigh, "but I must maintain they accompany me at a distance. Surely you understand."

Holis smiled weakly, his eyes betraying nothing but an apparent sympathy. "I do. Let us go. My people are restless."

Faramir's mind twisted in a soundless accusation, and he narrowed his eyes into an analytical glare. He thought of that strange dream again, and the memories of fear and doubt only amplified the distrust already present. Still, he only stepped to Hasufel. The horse seemed as uncomfortable with this prospect as he was, his massive form taut and his dark eyes watchful. Faramir patted his mount fondly for a moment, sharing a whisper of agreement, before turning to Beregond. His friend appeared no more certain of this venture, and the stern set of his jaw well marked his disapproval. Yet he only nodded and mounted his own horse. For Irehadde he then waited. The Dúnadan was speaking in a rushed tone to his king, and Aragorn nodded slightly at whatever was said. Then Irehadde climbed atop his chestnut mare and eased her around. Both men had their eyes firmly fixed on their wards. Irehadde's hand strayed to the hilt of his sword.

The steward was atop Hasufel a moment later. The gray stallion was stiff beneath him, and for a moment he refused to move. Holis was waiting, the black charger that he had rode to Emyn Arnen still and serene beneath him. Roheryn snorted as Aragorn pulled back on the reins. The king turned impatient eyes to the steward and his uncooperative horse. Faramir felt his cheeks burn. Even though his sympathized with Hasufel's apprehension, he was embarrassed at the display. "Demon-horse, quit this!" he hissed. Hasufel snorted, glaring menacingly at Holis' seemingly oblivious ebony mount. Stubbornly, he still refused to take a single step. The steward lost his patience and grunted with vexation as he gave his infuriating horse a swift kick with his heels. That was enough to jolt the willful animal into a reluctant trot.

They left the city. Roheryn walked between Hasufel and the emperor's warhorse as they began to cross Pelennor Fields. The chilly breeze ripped about them, making waves of gold as it rolled over the long grasses. It raked icy fingers across Faramir's face, and he stiffened his body to stifle a shudder. He refused to look behind him to assure himself that Irehadde and Beregond followed, though he was extremely uneasy and such knowledge would placate his doubts. He did not like this. He glanced to Aragorn, but the king's eyes were distant and his head was slightly cocked as though he were fervently listening to the wind. If he at all sensed this danger, he gave no indication. Faramir grunted softly and narrowed his eyes. Something inside him was screaming a keening wail of fear.  _This is wrong. We should not be doing this!_

The three lords traversed quite some distance before Holis decided to speak. His soft, calm words did nothing to relieve the tension. "I am sorry it has come to what it has." Faramir lifted his gaze and settled it on the emperor. The other's eyes were glazed as he looked ahead. The Southron army was a liquid line of black in the distance. They were nearly halfway there. "Perhaps justice is truly best served through vengeance." He seemed sorrowful and contemplative. Faramir wondered how he could so easily and flawlessly assume so many personalities. "Does it anger you, my Lord, to think a, forgive my simplification, cure might never be found?"

Aragorn jerked and pulled Roheryn to a stop, and the steward followed suit. Faramir saw the anger flash in his eyes. "What is you want, Holis? I tire of your mind games."

The handsome man raised an elegant eyebrow. "Such contempt in your tone, my King. Surely you do not so deplore me, for yesterday you nearly signed a peace treaty to inaugurate our friendship!"

"Between our nations," Aragorn replied coolly.

Holis actually laughed. "You act as though a kingdom is so easily separable from her king! The decisions of a leader inevitably shape a nation. Enlighten me, Elessar; does the suffering of one outweigh the potential misery of the many? I have often wondered this of your people. You declare that all lives are equal, and that any man, whether great or small, can rise to do great good. I hate to prattle of philosophy, but this point intrigued me. Do the needs of an individual override the needs of a nation? And what if that individual was a friend, a brother… an Elf. Do you place greater value on an immortal life? One Elf in his lifetime can accomplish much more than a single man or a dozen men. Does such a factor consider into the delegation of worth?" The man smiled slowly. "Let me ask you simply. Given the chance, would you sacrifice your nation to restore to you the Elf?"

The wind whistled.

Faramir's blood ran cold. His heart ceased its beat a moment, and he felt his jaw come open. There was no air to breathe. "You fiend," he whispered.

Holis looked at him suddenly, and dark eyes were aglow with delight. "Now, Lord Faramir, you leap to conclusions. I merely proposed a question, one I would like answered." That piercing gaze returned to Aragorn. The king was turning red with rage. "Indulge me, if you would, good King."

For a long moment Aragorn said nothing. The myriad emotions spinning and twisting in his eyes were indistinguishable, and Faramir felt something within him throb mercilessly. The dangerous sense of foreboding was making his skin crawl in horrific anticipation. A tense emptiness dominated, and the gales sweeping across the vast plains wailed their fury. "I would not." The sound of Aragorn's voice surprised Faramir. The steward had for some reason not expected him to answer, for the silence had been long and arduous. The declaration had been soft but sure to Faramir's ears, and it renewed a bit of his faith in his king.

Aragorn and Holis stared at each other a moment. They seemed to be gauging each other's strengths and weaknesses. Faramir watched, his heart thudding loudly in his chest, sweat collecting on his temples and tickling his skin. Neither so much as twitched a muscle, and it was a disturbing fight. A silent battle of wills between them. Faramir's innards twisted nervously. He prayed his king could triumph where he had previously failed. But it was Aragorn who looked away first with a soft, frustrated grunt. The steward's spirits sank, and despair edged closer to the heat of his hope. The oppressive foreboding came over him like a swarm of buzzing insects.

Holis smiled. The gesture was empty. "Do you consider yourself a rash man, Elessar?"

Aragorn's face twisted in his ire. "You try my patience."

But Holis simply continued in his taunt. "Do you believe yourself to be calm in the face of even the direst of perils? Surely you must. No man could assume such a powerful position and not think himself strong and confident. Arrogance is the ally of the strong and the enemy of the weak. Do you believe the path you have walked since that fateful attack on your nation so many days ago to be the correct one? Or would you changed its course had you the power? Do you trust your own decisions? A king who does not is hardly worthy of the title."

"You insult me," snapped Aragorn. Faramir felt control over this situation being rapidly wrested from them. He knew this would end poorly, but he could not make himself interfere. "Of course I have faith in my own leadership."

"Do you consider yourself to be better than your enemy?"

"If believing myself to be right in my causes constitutes such conceit, then yes!"

Holis' face was grim, but his eyes glowed in with that same grotesque hunger. "Above cowardice? Above brutality? And yet you send your men, your lords, your very friends on a bloody quest for retribution." Aragorn's eyes misted and for a moment his entire form seemed to shake. Roheryn whipped his head, as though sensing the emotional attack levied upon his master and searching for its source. "Did you not wish to mar your own conscience with such a foul deed? You are above them, are you not? These men are subordinates. Should they stain their hands in blood, it matters little. They can bare the brunt of its ugliness. They are mere instruments of your wrath." Aragorn flinched. "Ah, but let us not forget that silly law. Forgive me, my Lord, for my accusations. I cannot fault you for upholding the rules of your own people. You are not permitted to leave the city in times of war. I shall assume that, were it not for that foolish legislation enacted for your protection, you would do your own filthy work."

Faramir's eyes glinted angrily. He could not remain quiet while his lord and friend was insulted, demeaned, and attacked! "Leave, Holis," he demanded loudly and icily. His tone dripped in venom. "It is over. Whatever alliance that might have once existed is dead. Go and do not come back!"

A violent glare cooled his fiery resolution. "I will depart once he answers my question," the emperor calmly declared. Faramir knew he should not again interrupt. Fear stopped further words from even forming in his mind.

"Then ask it plainly!" Aragorn snapped angrily.

Holis was unfazed when any other might have cowered and fled in the face of such steely wrath. "What would you do differently if fate graced you with another chance? You think you stand now at the end. Look back and tell me you have not made mistakes."

Aragorn grunted and looked away. "Of course I have made mistakes. No one is above imperfection." His eyes softened a bit as he stared blankly at the leaves of grass twisting in the wind. "Do you despair for the men you have lost? If so, then I am sorry. You have suffered grievously in this war, and I do thank you for–"

Holis grew frustrated. "Stop your tongue and listen. You have made mistakes, and you have made many of them. But there was more to this design that simple pictures and plots, my Lord Elessar. Do you see your failings? Do you know where the correct path through a gauntlet of pitfalls left you lost? Think now and tell me  _where you fell_."

Aragorn shook his head slowly, his eyes distant in confusion and anger. His expression was fractured, and Faramir was beginning to see fear crawl into his once stoic gaze. He was as lost for words as Faramir was, and the two shared a befuddled, anxious gaze. When the king did not answer, Holis sighed loudly, as though he was greatly irritated. "And you still do not see. Let me guide you then. I tire of your ignorance." His face was placid and his eyes were unreadable. He was a monster. "Why did you not search for the Elf?"

The king paled at the question. Then he stammered, "What?"

"You hardly looked for him. The battle at Emyn Nimsîr becomes a terrible loss, and your forces return ashamed and defeated. Many are dead. Some are missing. Word comes to you that the prince disappeared in the battle. You are uncertain if he was killed or taken captive. Yet you do  _nothing_. You do not send men back to the battlefield to search. You do not attempt to find where the enemy might have taken him."

"We could not have saved him," Faramir mumbled feebly, his pain flowing into his voice.

"You did not try," Holis corrected firmly. "Now, given his brutal treatment, his ravaged body and mind, you scream your rage and plan your revenge. Yet the enemy was your own ignorance. You let this happen to him."

"No!" Aragorn bellowed. "We did not know where to look!"

Holis smiled and leaned closer to Aragorn. "Right here," he whispered.

The words were spoken so softly, so casually, that for a moment Faramir could not believe he heard them. Then the sensation of sound reached his numbed mind, but the meaning of the statement did not register. Time halted in its wicked march as though it waited for him to understand. He fumbled a moment, struggling to recover from the shock of it all. And when he did, rage came over him, hot and blinding, and he lost his breath. All the colors of the world washed together in a furious show of different hues, and the sun slammed down upon him. Idly he knew that now everything would make sense. Vaguely he understood that the final blow had struck him, and that this would be the worst of them all. They had been fools! Cursed, ignorant fools! How many times had his heart wailed and cried warnings? How many times had he lingered, contemplating the duplicity all about him and then casting that aside in favor of blind faith?  _No! Please, not this! This is not fair! This is not right!_

Aragorn was horrified. Unabashedly did his eyes widen, and his stare became listless and soulless. His face was white, and his composure was visibly faltering. Holis smiled in cruel satisfaction. There was no more doubt. Faramir's spirit quaked in waves of pounding fury. "Some men never change," he whispered weakly. He squeezed his eyes shut as hot tears flooded them. The evidence had been right before him! He had not seen it! All of the taunts, the hints, the whispers of the truth… He had not realized trusted himself!

Holis chuckled. Faramir looked to him, pulling away from the churning maelstrom of malignant misery within him. "And you, dear Faramir, are the biggest fool of them all. I saw the doubt in your eyes, heard the misgiving in your words. And yet you bid your instincts to be quiet and instead trusted that fate could not be so cruel, that such a thing could not be possible. You listened to your doubts and dismissed your theories. Again and again you touched the truth, but each time you pulled back your inquisitive fingers for fear of being burned by its unpleasantness. You saw, but then you closed your eyes to its ugliness. Well, now it is before you. Look! Look and see what you have allowed me to do!"

"You murderer!" cried Aragorn. "You vile monster! How dare you!" Andúril came clean from its sheath with a metallic ring and the king raised it threateningly. Roheryn danced about anxiously, his eyes wild as his master shook in his fury. "I do not believe you! It is impossible!"

"Impossible?" Holis repeated incredulously. Anger shone in his black eyes, and in its consuming fires was a glint of madness, of insult. "Nay, not impossible, Elessar. Clearly a mind so enfeebled cannot grasp the greatness of this drama! The most magnificent of plots has been unveiled before you, and only now do you see its glory!" The man veritably glowed, and the two lords of Gondor could only stare, astonished and utterly horrified. "Let me teach you the marvel I have performed. You have been lured into the grandest ruse ever enacted. Your puny settlements meant nothing to me. They were not warnings. They were not strategic victories. They were  _demonstrations_. It was their excess you were meant to see. In the wake of these horrific displays, you lingered, unsure of how to act or of what to even think. You were perplexed, and you debated and wondered in your pathetic councils about the purpose behind these seemingly random slaughters. Then I arrive and propose a mighty union between our nations, and though you had your doubts, you agree to my suggestions and attempt to protect Emyn Nimsîr. By now you have surely realized that the attack on Emyn Nimsîr was specifically designed to capture the Elf. Once Prince Legolas fell, the plot was fully in motion, and I needed to do little else but unleash him upon you at the most appropriate time."

"That is folly!" exclaimed Faramir in disgust. "You could not be sure Legolas would be successful in your assassination plot! You beat him so badly that it is remarkable he could fight as well as he did. And I doubt this  _thral-gûl_  is easy to inflict. If you meant for him to kill Aragorn, you jeopardized your entire plot by brutalizing him like that. Your intent from the start was to use Legolas against us. I cannot imagine you would so easily exchange all for which you have planned for a moment of sadistic lust and cruelty!"

Holis was amused. "You  _still_  do not see!  _Look_ , Faramir, and think. Your mind is torn asunder, and you perceive nothing clearly. The solution was there before you, and yet you chose the wrong one." The color drained from the steward's face as his lethargic mind failed him. Rage and pain denied him a clear picture, and he could not for all the want of his heart find the truth. "Do you think that assassination attempt made so long ago was meant to truly kill you, Elessar? I could not rely on the skills of a mere man against a lord as talented as you are. Your death was not its purpose. I planned it with something a bit subtle but in the end more damning in mind."

It was becoming clear. Horridly clear. Faramir's lips barely moved to form the words. "To trap Aragorn in the city," he murmured, absolutely aghast as the pieces fell into place.

Holis beamed sickly. "Very good, my Lord. You are finally proving yourself worthy of your reputation as a clever wit." He turned to Aragorn. "That silly law, my King, condemned you. It trapped you into this city. I trust it is now becoming clear, yes?" Aragorn was still, his face empty and his eyes lost in a sea of shock and misery. "No? Well, then I shall endeavor to enlighten you. I have spent long years studying my adversaries. In my…  _position_ , such care and paranoia was warranted, for Sauron's service is not without its competition. When the Dark Lord fell, by my own ambition did I ascend to leadership of the Haradrim. From there I turned my eye upon your growing, righteous nation. I have spent the last two years learning all I could of you, Elessar, so that when I chose to make my move, I could strike you at your weakest facet. Need I remind you of what that is, my King? You do seem to suffer from a pitiful inability to perceive yourself objectively."

Aragorn seemed so weak, so utterly crushed. "Why did you choose him? If you wanted to strike at me, you should have done so without dragging innocents into your madness! Is your thirst for blood so great that it cannot be quenched without the deaths of hundreds?" Ire brighter and hotter than a blazing fire raged in his gray eyes. "Or perhaps you merely fancied him. He represented something pure and unattainable, a perfection you could never dream of reaching! You want power! I saw the lust in your eyes when you touched him. You are a rapist, and nothing more! A jealous thief!"

The black charger reared, and Roheryn skittered back. Aragorn had not been prepared for the sudden action, and he fell suddenly from his mount as Roheryn wildly avoided the kicking forelegs of the emperor's horse. Aragorn rolled quickly, bringing Andúril to bear protectively, but Holis had not moved from his mount. Faramir immediately pushed Hasufel between the king and the emperor and drew his own sword. Holis' face was stony, malevolent and hard. "Do not presume to judge me," he hissed. "You know nothing of my dreams. You know nothing of the effort I have put into ascending into power! You detest me and spit upon my machinations, but you are no different! We both seek an absolute will, an ability to create and destroy as we see fit! You mold this world into a prosperous, peaceful age because  _you_  deem it proper. I do the same, only my ambitions are not so pitifully self-righteous. I make my own sun to rise and fall. I change what I wish when I wish it because it pleases me."

Faramir narrowed his eyes. He had heard this before, and once he might have been inclined to consider the logic behind the words. Now it only repulsed him. Holis continued. "I see a world where Harad crawls from beneath the shadow of oppression! I see a world where Gondor has sunk to its knees, and the White Tree shrivels before the might of a sun-kissed snake! I look on the path that has led us here and  _I_  see the mistakes. The errors of my kin and my ancestors committed us to a fate of servitude. We cowered beneath Sauron, and now we hide in the shadows while Gondor again flourishes!  _These_  are the missteps we took in our path, and  _I_  will make them right!"

Holis' voice was heated with pride and power. "Do you not see, Elessar, what I did to him? I defied his making. I saw the worth in his existence, and I changed what he thought unchangeable to realize my vision! The will of an Elf is no small trophy, but I won it. I conquered him and turned him into what I wished. It was a work of art, of magnificence, the fruition of years of studying and planning! He struggled, but I triumphed. He fought, but  _I_  defeated him. He held nothing so dear to his heart as his friendship with you, and I drove him to destroy it with violence.  _I_  changed  _him_  from a peaceful creature into a killer. I redefined his spirit. Do not soil such an accomplishment with such shallow accusations! Lust? Power? Rape? You demean me. See beyond the toil of the body, Elessar, and know the glory of my victory!"

Aragorn grunted and climbed to his feet. "You are insane," he hissed. "You kill to satiate your own desire! Destroying Gondor now will not erase past humiliation, if that is what you wish! You hate without reason!"

"Hate without reason?" Holis asked, his black eyes widening slightly. Then he laughed. The sound was terrible to Faramir's ears. He seemed so calm, so horribly composed. The steward's reeling mind could barely comprehend the absolute impossibility of this all. "Is your mind so dull, Elessar? Are your eyes so blind? Revenge is merely hatred with a purpose." The amused smile slid from his smooth face. "Do not revile me when you yourself have dipped your hands into the blood of another merely to ease your own malady." Again the color fled Aragorn's face, and a tempest of rage and grief clouded his piercing glare. "Would you kill again if you were to discover who it was that felled the Elf upon the battlefield? Would your sword taste the flesh of the man who carried his limp body into my willing clutches? Would your hands strangle the very breath from the one who bound his hands, who beat him until he had no breath to scream?" Aragorn shook violently and tears flooded his eyes. "It was I who slipped my fingers into his mind and ravaged his spirit. Surely he told you."

Confusion struck Faramir. He watched the despair mutilate all that remained of Aragorn's equanimity, and guilt like none he had ever before seen squeezed the king until he gasped for breath. He struggled to understand, and as though suddenly struck by good fortune, comprehension rushed over him in debilitating waves of disgust. The way Legolas had acted. The haunted look in his eyes. His shame and terror. It was almost as if the Elf had gone to sleep that night the Haradrim had arrived and awoken the next day as a completely different person. At the time he had not given it much thought, concerned with matters of war and with Legolas' obviously failing health. Now it made terrible, twisted sense.  _He came to Legolas in dreams and taunted his prey. Taunted him as he did me and as he does Aragorn now. He left hints, he tortured and tormented with foggy whispers of evil… And Legolas tried to tell Aragorn._  He understood now the king's unending misery, and he knew why the queen had spoken so guardedly about the source of his guilt.  _Aragorn did not listen._

"You are cruel beyond measure, Holis," Faramir said suddenly, shaking his head sadly. "You could not simply dominate. You could not simply destroy or control. You had to offer us clues. You had to instill doubt and dismay. You had to make this a challenge for yourself. There is no pleasure in an easy task." The words burned his throat, and his heart pounded his fury. "There is no value without risk."

Holis grinned again. "Ah, now you begin to understand. Perhaps you can explain this matter to your liege-lord, for I fear I have shocked him into a stupor." So serene was he atop his horse. He was powerful, pulsing exuberantly with sadistic pleasure. Faramir gritted his teeth and glared at the man. He refused to placate the other's sick enjoyment of this! "Still silent? Well, then I shall teach him. I plotted to find the King's weakness. I knew that his love for the Elf was great, and that their lasting friendship was a fault I could exploit. I sent upon you an assassin, whose failed attempt succeeded in bringing an old law regarding the king's safety to bear. I labored and planned to capture the Elf, using his own kindred to weaken him so that he might fall at the precise moment. I allowed the victory at Emyn Arnen to occur to lull you into a false sense of security. I offered another demon in my place, a convenient ruse upon which you focused your furious attention. I proposed the peace treaty, and you supplied the event of the public signing. I released the Elf upon you as a killer. I knew you would not stand to see your dearest friend so brutalized, raped, and tortured. The heinous fact of the  _thral-gûl_  alone was enough to deprive you of any will but that of vengeance. You vented your wrath upon Fallax, but as I suspected, that was not enough to fill the vacuous hole inside you that hungered for justice. It has all come to one crucial instance, to one act. And now, now in the promised moment, you have fallen completely into my trap."

Faramir's eyes widened. His heart stopped and he could not breathe.

"You have dispatched your army. Your city is unprotected."

The utter simplicity of it ached in his bones. The cold wind slammed against him, and the world fell away as he reeled in the moment. Bile burned the back of his throat, and his head swam in nausea. He felt ill, lost, and hopeless. He despised himself. He despised all the moments he had spent fighting to parse truth from lie. He was repulsed by this ultimate weakness. How many times had he questioned? How many times had he looked but not seen, wondered but not known, suspected but not acted? This demon had left such obvious clues! His chilling advances towards Legolas, his queer temperament, his uncanny willingness to help, his words at Emyn Arnen… That entire foul exchange had been the terrible truth! It had been right in front of him, and he had not seen! He could not understand. This could not be true!

He could not have been so foolish, so weak!

"No," he whispered, denial the only weapon afforded him. His fingers tingled with sudden sensation, and he felt the weight of his sword in his hand. He had failed to strike Holis down at Emyn Arnen. No, he had saved the monster's life! The disgusting truth of it broke his spirit. All of this could have been averted had he only thought more carefully, had he only listened to the wailing of his heart! The emperor had only volunteered to join them to assure them of his loyalty and righteousness. He had only saved Éowyn's life to turn away from him their misgivings. With sadistic glee had Holis baited and tested. He had pushed and prodded, anxious to experience the thrill of near-discovery, of manipulation and danger. This had all been some sick game to him! "You demon!"

"A demon, am I?" Holis watched him with bemused tranquility. "A demon for outwitting you? A demon for turning all you are against you, for knowing you better than you care to know yourselves? It is clever, is it not? You deem me evil for exacting this vengeance upon you. You think yourselves better and wiser, above such base and wretched emotions. Yet it is your own hunger for retribution that in the end destroys you. My weapon was your rage, and it has served me well. Nay, it is more than merely clever. It is  _fitting_. I stand now and you will fall. These are your mistakes! Do try to crawl from beneath their smothering hold. I wish for this to be interesting."

The sound of a distant rumbling interrupted the tense moment. Faramir looked behind Holis, glancing over the emperor's shoulder. His eyes widened and his breath hitched in his throat.

The Southron army was advancing. The once stationary line of black was now marching, drawing closer like a looming menace. It was sweeping across Pelennor Fields like a shadowy snake. The sounds of feet falling heavily in unison destroyed any peace that might have clung to the afternoon. Clanking armor and rattling weapons became a booming thud that struck Faramir violently. His fumbling thoughts raced to make sense of this. If he had doubted of the reality of this horrid situation before, he could not do so now. Nightmare meshed with color, clamor, and truth, and the world snapped into motion.

Red blasted Faramir's vision, and he launched himself forward. He did not think. The brutal barrage of his emotions against his control finally resulted in its snapping, and he was flying. He felt naught but unspeakable rage as he propelled himself from Hasufel's back. His balled fist struck flesh a second later, and Holis' head snapped back as the blow pounded into his mouth. A cry of absolute fury broke from the steward's lips as the weight of his body rammed into the unsuspecting emperor. The world pitched and shifted as Holis lost his balance, and then the two slammed into the ground.

Grass tickled Faramir's skin as he wrestled with the man. He had the advantage of surprise, and he used it immediately. His knee rammed into the dazed emperor's exposed abdomen, and Holis gasped in shock. The steward gave him no time to recover his lost breath, though, ramming his palm into Holis' jaw. Fire burned in Faramir's eyes and his breath came in quick gasps. Furious fingers sought to squeeze the life from the other's neck.

Then a strange sound reached Faramir's ears, bursting through the bloody haze of his wrath. The strength left his limbs, and the ire faded from his face in surprise. Holis was laughing. Blood gushed from his nose and lips, but he guffawed loudly, as though what had just occurred was all a wonderful joke. "So now you strike at me," chuckled the emperor. "Are you a murderer? The chance comes to you again. Will you kill me?" Black orbs were fathomless and frightening. Soulless and empty. They sought Faramir's hungrily and took him, as though he had no will, no want for his own life. Faramir lowered his raised fist, his body quivering in a muddled mess of feelings. Those full lips twisted into a gruesome grin. "Shall I tell you, Faramir, why Legolas charged you upon that balcony? Why he turned his blades upon you when I gave to him a task he should not have been able to deny? You are a noble man of thought; surely this has bothered you greatly." The color drained from Faramir's face and pain welled up inside his agonized heart. Suddenly he was frightened. "Hmm? No? Well, perhaps another day."

Those eyes seemed to delve into his very soul, and the vacuum of noise about his pounding head suddenly disappeared. Sound rushed into his brain with a terrible roar, and he fell back. Fear pushed his unresponsive body into clumsy motion, and he kicked his way into the grass to be rid of Holis' cursed gaze. Aragorn was immediately at his side, helping him rise, but Faramir's legs refused to support him.

The emperor laughed and stood. He wiped the dirt from his clothes. He licked the blood from his lips. "Go, now. Fortify your city. Make an admirable defense of this. I have put too much of myself into this plot for it to end simply. I do not want this to be easy. There is no excitement in a simple conquest!" The two lords of Gondor watched, petrified and shocked, as the man adopted a calm, patient expression. Silence came between them, awkward and angry, and no one moved. Holis was waiting. He was waiting for them to present him a challenge.

And they had no choice but to comply.

They had erred greatly, and they had no choice at all.

Aragorn was pulling him to his feet, and his body moved without his conscious direction. He scrambled to right himself. He collected his fallen sword and returned it mindlessly to its sheath. Panic pulsed in his blood as he pulled himself atop Hasufel once more.

Aragorn's voice was seething as the king spoke. "I swear I will kill you." The threat was cold and vicious, and his gray eyes were lost in a fire of consuming fury. Holis said nothing to the seething words, though. He stood completely still, erect and strong as the wind rushed about him. As the world broke about him like waves upon a rock.

Then the king was atop Roheryn. Only glancing once at Aragorn, Faramir pushed the Hasufel into a gallop, and the horse was all too willing to comply. Without another breath the two lords of Gondor were racing across the field. Ahead Beregond and Imrahil were approaching, obviously having seen the commotion. Never once did Faramir look back. He knew the emperor's unblinking stare was upon them, dissecting them, pushing them by his will. Maneuvering them as one did the players of a game.

He had failed.  _He had failed!_

A mistake once made could not be undone.

He did not hear after that. Words were shared, panic interlacing statements of rage and fear. The world blurred into a mess of color and sound, and he could no longer separate the sensations. The wind tore tears from his eyes and hope from his rushing heart. He was lost in his misery, in his violent rage and relentless grief.

They reached the Gateway, and only then did he snap from his stupor. His city was in danger. His friends. His wife.

Panic rent the air. Aragorn's voice was loud, cracking with desperation and terror, as he bellowed, "Close the Gate! We are under siege!  _Close the Gate!_ "

Pandemonium broke loose from the restraining grasp of logic and calm as the soldiers scrambled to follow the orders of their king. Faramir's rushed breathing boomed in his ears as he brought Hasufel about in the massive entrance. Men everywhere stood still, paralyzed, unknowing of the terrible menace that approached. Silence came, terrible and deep, as the grand doors began to swing shut. Heavy and slow as they were, they gave them all an ample opportunity to watch deceit charge towards their precious home. Black and ominous was the horde of monsters as it neared, bringing with it all the terror of war and all the desolation of destruction. The setting sun bathed the field in blood.

Then there was a terrific whine, and the scene disappeared. The doors met with a deep bang that rattled the spirit of the city. Only then, when the thunder of the closing gate was slowly receding in an unsettling echo, did the true nature of this horrendous twist become apparent. The stiff quiet returned, but it brought with it this irrefutable reality: the enemy was approaching, and they were alone.


	28. Too Little Too Late

"Archers on the wall!"

The sound was distant, deep and dull to his ears. It came in a roar that slowly but surely breathed energy again into limbs once rendered limp and useless by despair. Still, the shock clung to him desperately, unwilling to relinquish his paralyzed mind and body to action. He simply could not comprehend the terror unfolding before him and the horrific path that had led them to this incredible moment. A gamut of emotions assailed him, each insistent and striking, and he was lost in the storm of misery. Vaguely he knew he should move. He knew his people were looking to him for guidance, for strength. He knew his king was depending upon him to remain steadfast and certain despite the fell mess of things. He knew his friends and his wife needed him. Yet uncertainty left him a stationary statue in a world that was rushing about him, and he was still reeling from the crushing surprise and terror. What could he do now? What could any of them do? It would be too little, in the end. It was already too late.

"Get archers on the wall!" Inexplicably this second shout from Beregond shattered the ice about Faramir's body, and he shook his head to clear it of the numbing daze. He was jerked into motion, stepping down from Hasufel as a boy grabbed the leather reins. A strange calm came over him as he neared Aragorn. He knew that it was the peace of battle, the cold composure of a hardened warrior. It was apathy borne from avoiding trauma too terrible to face.

Aragorn's visage was white. It was clear to the steward that their lord was struggling to maintain some semblance of control. Irehadde had grabbed his arm. "What is happening, my Liege?" gasped the Dúnadan, his stern face uncharacteristically flushed and frightened. "Why do they attack now?" A frenzied glint came to his eyes. "What happened out there, my Lord?"

Aragorn was as rattled as Faramir, and the king lifted his eyes slowly from the ground. The gray orbs were wide and lost, and Faramir thought he could see his friend's composure shake and tremble as though it were a leaf struggling to remain fixed to its branch in a vicious breeze. That distress mirrored his own, but it was frightening to see it so open, so powerful. Moreover, it was terrifying to find it upon their king. Through the haze of fear and misery came to him an undisputable fact: if Aragorn was not fit to lead, he would have to rise to command. The thought sent his worn heart into a thundering race of doubt and worry. He could not imagine having strength now or maintaining calm enough to be strength for others. He could not fathom finding the courage to lead the nation when such ruin was promised them, to force a futile struggle from a frightened people. He was not so brave. He was not so cruel.

But he banished these thoughts. He saw the weakness swirl in Aragorn's gaze. He witnessed the man's once strong shoulders slump with grief and defeat. He observed the king's clenched fists shake in rage and his form quiver in shock. The man was floundering. His calm was fleeting. Faramir knew Aragorn was slipping away from them, that their king was losing himself in a blind flood of misery and fury. The steward was also sure that the other was in no condition to properly rule his kingdom, much less coordinate a panicked defense. Though his stomach twisted and his head swam in a blazing ache, a remarkable calm came to him. This was his duty. He would stand when others fell. He was Steward of Gondor. He would protect his nation.

Life jolted through his once leaden limbs with startling ferocity. His eyes hardened, and a glint of energy and anger shone in them. "Call forth all lords and commanders," declared Faramir to Irehadde.

The Dúnadan's face was a picture of frustrated fury. "Explain what was said, my Lord," seethed the man. His steely eyes flashed. "I will not incite a panic in this city without knowing the full cause!"

"There is no time," snapped Faramir. The steward stepped forward, his hand coming to rest on the hilt of his blade. "We must strengthen our defenses. They are coming, and they are coming in force. They will cut through our fortifications like a sharp blade through skin. If we do not act now, Minas Tirith will fall!"

His words were loud enough to draw a few riled murmurs and whispers from the growing assembly of men. Irehadde's face was grim and hateful. " _You_  are not the King, son of Denethor," hissed the warrior spitefully.

Faramir was not about to allow Irehadde this tantrum. "Nay, I am not," he answered slowly. "But I  _am_  Steward of Gondor. You are my equal in advising the King, but you are my subordinate in protecting this nation. Now heed my command and send for the lords! There is little time, and we cannot waste it with debate!"

Irehadde flushed slightly. His lower lip quivered in stifled rage, and for a moment his eyes shone madly in the dying daylight. Faramir fought to maintain a firm expression, unwilling to appear doubtful. He prayed that this argument would end here, that no more of their precious moments would be spent in this foolery! Much to his relief, it did. A long moment of silence passed before Irehadde looked away. Defeated, the other man stiffly turned and set about doing as he had been instructed.

Faramir allowed himself no pleasure in this momentary victory. He faced the company commanders of the Gateway, issuing orders instinctively. "I want every man capable of wielding a bow atop the ramparts. Form a solid line of archers along its length and build a reserve behind it. Send word to the armories to furnish the soldiers with as many arrows as possible, and to do so quickly. We will likely deplete ammunition long before we run short of men to launch it." One of the soldiers nodded and ran to the street, his eyes wide with fear but his body firm enough to carry him away rapidly. To the remaining men, the steward instructed, "Fetch hot oil, rocks, anvils,  _anything_ that we might use to prevent the attackers from climbing that wall."

"But, sir," an older soldier gasped, "should we not fortify all the gates?"

Faramir shook his head, his mind racing. "Nay, we cannot adequately defend each gate. We have not the forces. Should we spread what we do possess over too many posts, we will be unable to effectively reinforce any."

"Call back King Éomer's men, my Lord! Call them back!" Faramir could not discern from whom the panicked cry originated, but its effect was immediate and undesirable. A chorus of affirmation resounded over the crowd, and morale felt to be tangibly slipping. Faramir's spirit shriveled at the terror and torment he heard in their voices for it all too clearly resembled his own.

Beregond brushed his arm. The other's eyes were narrowed and frantic. "Perhaps we should, my Lord. We cannot contend with an army of this size alone! The Guard is diminished, and the armory is depleted from previous engagements. I doubt we can even properly protect the Gateway for long."

Faramir sighed and felt his control slipping. He looked to Aragorn, but the king was as hindered by doubt as he was. His head pounded, and he closed his eyes for a moment. It was an alluring prospect. They could simply recall Gondor's army. Only a day had passed. Surely they had not traveled so far to be beyond communication. Summoning them was the obvious conclusion. The army would charge back to Minas Tirith and trap the offenders against the Gateway. It would take the Haradrim time to besiege the great wall, and if Éomer, Imrahil, and the Elves returned soon enough, the Southrons might never step foot inside the city.

But Faramir knew this was optimistic thinking. Holis was no fool. He had proven that repeatedly. He had foreseen every possible difficulty and anticipated every outcome. He would not be so careless, so sloppy. In this, the triumph of a long, complicated plot, of years of study and planning, he would not be so arrogant as to allow them an easy escape. He was nothing else if not exacting and calculating. It was inconceivable that Holis could be so blind.

Aragorn had obviously been thinking the same dire thoughts that had crossed Faramir's stricken mind, for the king raised his head slightly. With glazed eyes he spoke, his lips barely moving, "He will see." Silence came, silence that was laden with terror and shock. "They see. They will not let us."

Faramir released a slow breath. "My Lord," he began, desperate to find a shred of hope, if not for himself then for his men. They did not know the nature of the monster that they faced. They had no concept of Holis' cunning, of his sadistic malice, of his infuriating patience and seemingly endless desires. They would need faith to bolster their resolve in the coming days. "Perhaps we might send forth birds." The idea sounded lame to his own ears. He knew better than most that such tactics would not work against the Haradrim. Previous encounters had proven that the Southrons destroyed carrier birds and captured messengers. They would never let them so easily contact their forces. Furthermore, Faramir had no doubt Gondor's army was engaged somehow. He supposed there was little evidence beyond his own fear and pessimism to support such a conclusion, but he found he was certain of it.

Aragorn met his gaze. Though Faramir's heart was ripped and bleeding, he steeled his face and offered his king his strength. Surely Aragorn had come to the same devastating understanding. But they could not afford to spend any more time regretting the mistakes they had made. They needed to act, and Aragorn was calm enough to realize this. He nodded, lowering his eyes again as though shameful of the situation he had permitted to occur. Faramir's stomach clenched at the sight of his once proud friend so defeated, but he rushed onward, knowing moments spent in misery were ones they could not get back.

Ideas and memories flew through his head, and he tried to make sense of them. His calm was wavering, but he refused to release his composure to the greedy hunger of his emotions. Many, many years ago his tutors had spent a few days instructing his brother and him in the machinations of a siege. Minas Tirith was a greatly fortified city, and it was not easy to infiltrate. It boasted a long history of bravery and resilience against enemy attack. Yet never before had it faced a force of this size without the power of its army. Faramir struggled to remember those silly lessons now, fighting to recall the strategies the scholars had drilled into him. From the haze came a single statement.  _"Protect the people at all costs. They are your charges. Do not fail them."_

"We need to move all the citizens into the sixth and seventh gates immediately," he declared softly.

A grunt came from his right. Over the shouting of the archer commanders and the stomping of feet running up the parapet he could barely hear the complaint. "But, sir, such preparations take days, even weeks! We cannot simply move thousands of people on a whim!"

Faramir's fist found its way to the man's coat and he yanked the soldier forward. "You waste time by whining. Now go!" he yelled, shoving the stunned man away. The man lurched before scrambling into a run.

"My Lord," said Beregond tentatively. Faramir turned to face the warrior, struggling to swallow his anger and frustration. The man's eyes were surprisingly calm, despite the pandemonium all around them. "With all due respect, you ask for something that is not possible."

It made disappointing sense. If he were to send mere soldiers into the city demanding an evacuation, it would only incite panic. He remembered the whispers of dissention he had heard earlier on the streets, and he became certain that the citizens would be less than willing to calmly follow their requests and move to the interior of the city. They could not contend with riots or hysteria; they already lacked manpower enough to properly defend their home! But Faramir was not about to be dissuaded. He did not know if Holis intended to destroy the White City. It seemed as though the emperor's ambitions concerned specifically Aragorn and defeating him, but Faramir had learned not to assume. Holis was beyond reason.

An idea suddenly came to him. "My King," he began, turning to the dazed Aragorn, "perhaps you might help with the evacuation. If you are present, the people might remain calm, and surely it will speak to the seriousness of the situation." The steward kept his voice steady, though his heart was fluttering in anticipation. He prayed Aragorn would agree. The king was obviously unfit for leadership at the moment, and removing him from the Gateway area would also ensure his safety. Faramir held Aragorn's gaze, maintaining strength and serenity in his eyes. Eventually Aragorn nodded, and his shoulders seemed to slump even further as he turned. A small retinue of guards trailed him as he mounted Roheryn and left.

Faramir breathed a sigh of relief. His reprieve was brief, for from the wall came a shrill shout. "They come! They come!" Fear stole his breath, and his eyes widened. The archers rushed up the stairs frantically, scrambling to empty posts. Many were without arrows. They were not yet ready!

Regardless, the siege had started.

Faramir's feet were moving his body, and his lips spoke despite his mind's sluggish response. "Give me your bow, lad," he demanded of one of the archers. The boy regarded him in shock for a moment before relinquishing his weapon and his bundle of arrows to the steward and removing himself from the line. "Send word to the armories to hurry with supplies! And contact private stores! The city will reimburse them for whatever they can offer!" He did not wait to see if his orders were answered. Instead, long legs propelled him up the stairs. Nimbly he stepped through the lines of archers until he reached the top of the wall. He pushed his way through the mess of men, breathing heavily, his heart pounding. He grabbed the stone and looked.

Shadow swept across Pelennor Fields. The setting sun painted the golden reeds in blood, and they waved and quivered as the army of the Haradrim marched closer to the city. Distant shouting became louder and distinct, and the thunder of stomping feet destroyed the peace of the evening. Faramir sucked a shuddering breath through white lips, shaking his head slightly in dread. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers were approaching, and gradually the nondescript lines of black became rows and rows of men.  _So many… How could there be so many?_ Wicked flags winked and shone in the sunset, the golden serpent rising proudly into the ruby light. In the distance the great hulking masses of the oliphaunts swayed and shifted as they neared. Faramir's blood became cold, and a chilly shiver worked its way down his spine. He had forgotten about those massive beasts. He could not imagine how they might affect the attack upon the wall, but he had no doubt it would not be to Gondor's favor.

Shaking aside his fear, he drew an arrow. "Ready arrows!" he bellowed, looking up and down the line of fumbling archers. The men answered with a tentative chorus of pride and hope, and though the cry was weaker than normal, it was not without a heartening tone. Shafts were drawn from quivers and fitted to bowstrings. "Acquire targets!" From the blur of enemies men became individuals, distinct in form. Shadows broke, and the archers located a figure at which to shoot. Faramir closed his eyes a moment and drew a deep breath. He imagined Éowyn's face. Her blue eyes twinkled in happiness, and a smile spread across her soft lips. It was the smile she saved for him and him alone, a grin that made his heart beat and his blood flow. She glowed.

He opened his eyes again and exhaled. "Men, for your wives and lovers! For your sons and daughters! For Gondor we will protect this wall! We must not retreat!" The words sounded rich and true to his ears, and for a moment, he could forget the utter impossibility of their victory. He allowed the bravado to pour forth from his lips. He could not stand the idea of cowering in this moment. "For Gondor, fire and do not fall!"

Into the bloody light descended a heavy rain of shots. The arrows struck the advancing lines of Haradrim, and bodies fell into the golden grasses. Blood painted the flaxen reeds. Still, those behind the men that were hit paid them little heed, stepping over or on them to reach the wall. Faramir quickly set another arrow to his bow, picked an enemy from the unending swarm, and let the shot fly. His target fell with a yelp that was all but inaudible in the roar of battle. "Maintain a heavy volley!" hollered the steward as he paused to look up and down the wall. "Hold steady!"

Return fire reached them, and a black arrow slammed into the chest of the man beside Faramir. The unfortunate soldier fell from the force of the impact, his arms pin-wheeling and his mouth open in a soundless scream as he tumbled from the ramparts. One of the reservists immediately took his place, lifting a bow and launching an arrow. Faramir allowed himself a small breath of relief before ducking as another round of dark projectiles descended about them. Most struck the stone wall with the snap of breaking shafts. A few hit flesh, and men wailed as they met their demises. The rock was cool against Faramir's heated skin as he waited tensely for the counter attack to cease. When it did, he rose again, quickly took aim, and shot.

Time lost meaning. One second became as desperate and fleeting as the next. Besides thinning the charge, there was little else with which he concerned himself. The Southrons swarmed the wall like hungry demons. Gleefully they seemed to bounce and dance below, caring little for the rain of razor-sharp arrows falling mercilessly upon them. They veritably roared with pride and euphoria, their cheer shaking the great Gateway as though stone had suddenly become paper. Concentration was nearly impossible with such a racket, and each rough, black taunt smashed morale violently. Though arrows struck, they did little to lessen their advance, and the Southrons showed no signs of fear as they pounded upon the wall.

"My Lord." The whisper from his left drew his attention for a moment. It was one of the archer company commanders, and the man's face was red and worried. Sweat glistened on his pale skin, and his eyes glinted sadly in the setting sun. "Perhaps you ought to seek shelter, my Lord! It is terribly dangerous up here."

 _You have a magnificent capacity for stating the obvious,_  Faramir thought snidely, but he said nothing. There was something strange about this attack. Long minutes had passed, but as of yet the Haradrim had done nothing to attempt to surmount the wall. They seemed perfectly content to merely sneer and gloat, and that was both disturbing and frustrating. The steward squinted as he peered over the top of the wall. He could see no siege equipment. Their forces sported neither battering ram nor trebuchet. How did they intend to gain access to the city?

" _If the invaders wish to minimize damage, they will climb rather than destroy."_  The scholar's old words skipped across his muddled thoughts. Slowly the idea made sense, and he looked directly down. Even though shadows drew tightly about the base of the wall, he carefully watched exactly what the throng of black-clad soldiers was doing. His eyes widened. Every so often a dark figure would push against the stone and dump a load of dirt. They were raising the land.

"Shoot those closest to the wall!" he bellowed, standing and fitting another arrow to his bow. Snarling softly, he powerfully pulled back on the string. A breath later a Southron tumbled back into his compatriots and dirt sprayed into the air. Those around Faramir followed his example, and the earth-laden soldiers below fell in the bloody reeds. Faramir's wide eyes drifted from the growing mound of soil along the base of the Gateway to the bleating, stomping oliphaunts being led closer to the city. The massive beasts were not tall enough to lift men above the Gateway alone. However, if they managed to elevate the land outside the wall by a mere five or ten feet, they could undoubtedly use the gigantic animals to move men inside Minas Tirith.

Faramir swallowed, but his throat was painfully dry and his mouth tasted terrible. He did not understand, and he was irritated with confusion. Why go through such trouble? Such a tactic would require many hours of labor. The Haradrim boasted a much larger force! They needed not undertake such a difficult method when they might merely swarm and break open the gate. But as he pondered the matter he realized it was only another twisted example of Holis' planning, of his unerring ability to anticipate.

They needed the Gateway intact if Gondor's army should happen to return.

_Brother, protect us…_

"My Lord, the hot oil!" Faramir turned at the cry and observed the first of the vats being lugged up the stairs. Soldiers grasped the handles on both ends of the large, steel bowl, grunting and sweating as they struggled to lift the heavy container onto the ramparts. The steward's heart leapt in unrestrained hope. Perhaps they could at least slow their progress!

"Bring it to the edge! Hurry!" cried the steward.

"Make way! Make way!" The call reached those at the front, and they scrambled frantically from the wall, pressing themselves down to the wooden gangway as another bout of return fire careened around them. Despite the crowd upon the ramparts, they managed to shove the heavy vat to the wall. Steel struck the rock, and the rank smelling stuff spilled over the edge. It was a mixture of lamp oil, animal fat, and grease, heated to a scalding temperature. Cauldron after cauldron followed, the men grunting and shouting as they pulled and lifted.

"Pour, men!  _Pour!_ " The vats were tipped, and the foul, steaming oil flowed down the tall fortification to cover the attackers. Along the wall far and wide the burning liquid spilled, coating the men unfortunate enough to be below the putrid, violent falls. Screams rent the air, shrill and agonized. The keening wails nearly pierced Faramir's resolve, but he remained angered and frightened enough to shoot those struggling to escape the burning shower. The archers around him dipped arrows wrapped in oily rags into torches, and fired the flaming shots into the screaming mess. The hot liquid was immediately set ablaze, and the stink of burning flesh twisted Faramir's stomach. Despite the gruesomeness of the strategy, he could not deny its effectiveness. The Southrons immediately retracted. Two lines of soldiers instantaneously differentiated. Behind the dirt-carriers were the archers, and they lifted their ranged weapons and fired upon the wall with cold, violent fervor.

All around him his people fell. As though they were earlier playing a game or toying with them, the Haradrim now aimed true. Faramir's heart stopped its terrified pounding for a split second as an arrow whizzed by him. A shudder worked its way down his back and the fine hairs on the back of his neck rose as the shot cut the air next to this cheek, caressing his face and hair. The deadly tip of the arrow had missed him by less than an inch. The man behind him was not so fortunate, though. Blood sprayed over the back of Faramir's hair and coat. The impact sent the man reeling backwards, and he blindly grabbed for anything to steady himself. His fingers wrapped themselves instinctively in Faramir's coat, but the steward was unprepared. A breath later, the dead soldier slipped, and both men fell from the gangway.

The world melted into a blur of reds and oranges, and the shadows spun around him as he fell. Faramir could not draw air enough into his lungs to cry out as his body roughly struck a hard and unforgiving surface. Pain spread through him like fire, claiming his hapless body as he rolled and tumbled and flailed. Weight crushed him into the roughness, and he could not breathe. Vaguely he knew the mass to be the body of the dead soldier whose limbs were tangled with his own. He realized the hard, bruising rocks he seemed to bounce against were the steps leading up to the gate. He also idly comprehended his great luck, for had he not landed upon the stairs, he would have been killed by the fall from the gangway to the ground below. Yet these silly thoughts fled him; they meant little given his overwhelming pain, fear, and nausea. For an unending eternity he tumbled, and with each turn, with each spin, a piece of his consciousness fell away.

Finally he stopped, but it was too late. Through the haze of horror and hurt, his thoughts fought to right themselves. There were not enough of them, however, to ward away the press of sleep. He drifted down, eager to escape the pain and misery. Lavenders clouds kissed a red sky. Smoke and blood. Even this seemed a fancy more than a foreshadowing. To a languishing mind, it was merely a painted picture, a collection of pretty hues. He smiled and slipped away.

* * *

There would be no sleep for the White City this night. Though the attack had lulled, each man and woman knew that the silent hours afforded them were too precious to be spent in rest. There was too much to be done. On the king's orders, all citizens were moving into the sixth and seventh gates. There was hardly housing enough to accommodate the crowds of people rushing to the interior of the city. Inns were instructed to open their rooms to whoever needed them. Preference was given to women with small children and the elderly. Word was spread to all able-bodied men that, should the enemy breach the Gateway and enter the city, they were responsible for their families. Normally weapons would be distributed to any male capable of wielding a sword, spear, or bow. However, there were no supplies to support a militia, and there was no time to properly organize one. The government could only hope the citizens would do all they could to protect themselves and fight the invaders.

The streets were greatly congested as people pushed and shoved their way as close to the Citadel as possible. The Guards at the sixth and seventh gates turned those away who carried with them unnecessary goods. Many believed it would be a far better thing to lug with them their valuables than allow the enemy access to items of worth. They did not realize the Haradrim came to Gondor to conquer, not pillage. Such paraphernalia was best left, but most were not willing to abandon it. Some did not know the extent of the danger that they faced. Some were simply greedy. Regardless, the narrow roads were cluttered with carts, both manned and abandoned, clothes, boxes, and half-filled crates.

Panic clung as a suffocating shroud. As of yet, calm enough had been maintained to ensure some semblance of order. Although the citizens were frantic to attain the salvation of the municipal interior, they were peaceable enough to wait somewhat patiently as the soldiers slowly allowed them inside. The racket was utterly deafening. Shouting, worried gossip, and crying filled the night air, creating a clamor over which nothing could be heard. The serenity was terribly precarious. At any moment, it seemed, terror could turn cruel and cunning and rip from them this tenuous control. The situation resembled that of a convoluted construction. Though seemingly sturdy, a potent enough gale striking the structure in just the right place would send the entire thing crashing to the ground.

Inside the Citadel, it was surprisingly quiet. Many of the workers and servants had been sent to aid in the evacuation. Room in the Houses of Healing was needed for those that had been wounded, and patients well enough to be transported had been moved into the healer's quarters of the Citadel. Included in these was Amrothos, son of Imrahil, whose arrow wound was mending nicely. Security had been greatly tightened. Guards were stationed in every corridor. Every person entering and leaving the Citadel was checked and monitored. As night came, the chaos had slowly receded to a dull acceptance. The halls, once filled with shouting, weeping, and rushing feet, were now dark and quiet. Silence, deep and dreary, had descended upon the House of Telcontar. There would be no escape. The little they could do would not be enough.

Faramir sighed. His head throbbed angrily. Gingerly his fingers again probed the swelling wound on the back of his skull. The healer had assured him the injury was not serious and that it would cause him little more than a bit of discomfort for the following days. The pounding agony behind his eyes seemed more severe than a simple ache, though he was fairly certain it was merely due to his despair and exhaustion. His tumble down the stairs had left him unconscious for only a few minutes, but the blow had been enough to disorient him and deny him the ability to again climb the wall. Beregond had insisted he remain safely away from the battle, despite his assurances of his wellbeing. It had been just as well, he supposed, for Irehadde had returned with the lords and captains. Among them was a Dwarf named Gimble, who served as a commander to Gimli. To each he had delegated whatever tasks his rattled brain could manage to remember. Protecting the King. Reinforcing the Gateway. Patching areas in the seventh gate that had been left to decay in false security. Aiding in evacuating the citizens. Moving food and supplies to the city interior. He had sent Gimble to ask Gimli to see to any other means of reaching the Citadel. He knew of sewers and tunnels, and some of which lead from the areas surrounding Minas Tirith to the seventh gate itself. The Dwarves would be most useful in determining the danger or advantage offered by these dank, hidden routes.

He shook his head slightly against his wandering thoughts. He was so very weary, and it was difficult to maintain his attention upon any particular task. He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. Hours had passed since the siege had begun. Though the moments had seemed long and torturous, he realized now that they had been short and worthless. For now the attack had stopped. The Haradrim had ceased their attempts to remove the Gondorian defense from the top of the Gateway. They had halted in building their dirt platforms for the evening. Faramir found their respect for rest undeniably surprising. After much pondering, he decided this repose could mean only one of two things: either their resistance had inflicted greater damage to the Southrons than they had anticipated or Holis was confident that his victory was nigh. Knowing the emperor, the latter was more than likely.

In either case, he had left the protection of the Gateway in the capable hands of Irehadde. The lull in the assault was certainly not evidence enough to warrant relaxation. Archers would remain on watch for the duration of the night, observing the enemy army, which now rested half a league from the gate, in shifts. Faramir sincerely doubted that Holis would again order an attack that night, but he was not willing to run the risk of being caught unprepared once more. They could not afford to make any more mistakes.

Even though his sore body demanded rest, he had taken upon himself another task. Upon returning to the Citadel, Beregond had insisted his wounds receive a more thorough examination, and while he begrudgingly obliged, he had encountered the queen. Though Arwen had not said as much, it was clear from her forlorn, soft words that she was greatly troubled. Aragorn had apparently refused even her counsel. Legolas had been moved from the healer's quarters to his own chambers, for there was little more simple herbs and bandages could do for him and the space was better used by those whose wounds were treatable. Since that time, which had been hours prior, the king had refused to leave the Elf's room. It had been more than obvious that this turn had frightened the queen greatly. Yet, ever a creature of grace and strength, Arwen had only assured Faramir that Éowyn was well and asked him to rest. There was far too much troubling Gondor already without the added stress of an injured steward. With a tender smile that seemed to brighten the hopeless blackness, she had silently returned to her duties.

Yet Faramir had understood what she wished of him, even if she could not admit it to him or to even herself. Their king was withering. Their friend was fading. Faramir thought himself able, but he knew his limitations. He had not been trained as a ruling steward, and though he had gleaned some learning from his brother, he did not have the undying respect or adoration of the people. He was not their hero, their leader, their hope. The strength and peace of Gondor in the Fourth Age was the product of Aragorn's work and dedication. He had come to Minas Tirith in its darkest hour, and he had brought with him the glory of a new era. He had been a herald of prosperity, of light and love. If the king were to now disappear and leave his people in this desperate time of need, Faramir knew no amount of his own strength, courage, or intelligence could hold together the nation. Gondor was a kingdom founded upon the power of hope. Without it, it would fall.

But more than this was the undeniable worry plaguing Faramir's heart for his friend's spirit. The defeated mire in the other's gaze haunted the steward. He knew well the depths of Aragorn's despair, for he was certain the king's misery was quite similar to his own. They had both been played a thoughtless fool. There had been doubts and suspicions, whispers of fear. They had been warned and they had been wary, yet they had ignored caution. They had disregarded instinct and acted upon… Faramir sighed. He could not even recall the logic that had warranted such foolery! Dreams of peace, of a new time when the men of Gondor and the men of Harad could live together… The idea had seemed so remote, given the scant little they had known about the desert society. Only in hindsight could he realize the sleek appeal of it all. He was not a man that much cared for ego or reputation, but even he could not deny the allure of the prospect. Fathering an allegiance between two once warring nations was a mighty accomplishment, the sort of achievement for which men were honored and revered. Wiping away thousands of years of bad blood, terror, and hatred would be a crowning experience. Holis had used their honor and desires against them. They had been victimized by their own ignorance, by their hopes and faith in their kindred that such brutality was beyond mankind, by their aspirations and silly dreams.  _Nay, we are not victims! The people of Cair Andros and Linhir were victims. Legolas…_  Yes, he knew this guilt as closely as he knew his grief over his brother's death or his love for his wife. It was a part of him now, and he feared it always would be. And he was certain Aragorn suffered similarly.

But this could not continue. He would not permit it. Perhaps they had been blind. Surely they had been foolish. They had wallowed and whimpered for what seemed to be forever. Hindered by grief and hampered by doubt, they had allowed the worst atrocities to be committed against them. There could be no excuse, and even if he might somehow conjure up some rationale for their actions, he would never accept it. His heart was bleeding and broken, but only justice would lift the pulverizing weight of shame and despair from it. Amends needed to be made. Freedom would prevail, but not without effort and courage. They could not afford to wallow any longer. Not any of them.

Faramir opened his eyes. He drew a deep breath and hoped he had the strength to make the first step. The day had been long, and his body ached fiercely. Exhaustion encroached upon his meager store of energy, and his will was floundering. Truth be told, he doubted his ambitions here. What right did he have to pull Aragorn from his grief and demand that he cast it aside? What gave him the power to deny his king, his lord, his  _friend_  this dark hour? What gall did he boast to grab Aragorn and forcibly drag him from the comfort of shadow into the burning glare of reality?

_I must end this._

The metal of the doorknob chilled his fingers, and the ache settled in his bones. He opened the door slowly, expecting a low whine or a keening moan of aged metal joints bending, but there was nothing but a heavy silence. Silence and shadow. The room within was dark and cold. The chill of autumn had seeped into the Citadel, and no fire burned in the hearth. Blackness swept down, covering the stone of the walls and the oak of the furniture. A solitary candle shed dim, yellow illumination, weakly piercing the oblivion with a meager, haunting glow. Faramir stood still, irrationally feeling that he was trespassing into a different world that did not welcome him. The air was tight and tense, saturated with unspeakable misery, and it seemed to freeze his lungs when he breathed. The night swirled about him, drawing from within him his own melancholy, strangling his light and choking his will. He shivered. Evil kissed and caressed with the affection of a subtle lover, but it was still evil irrefutably. It was a cunning, cruel witch that masked its malice with a deceiving quiet and calm. A pure soul was withering, and those that loved it were railing in the blackness.

Faramir's courage failed him as his eyes adjusted to the shadow. The darkness took form, apparitions gaining eerie substance as the faint light traced contours and licked lines into existence. His heart sunk into his belly, and whatever energy that might have driven him before evaporated from crawling skin. He could do naught but stare at the bed. At Legolas' face. It seemed impossible that the body so twisted in pain and anguish mere hours ago could now be so still. Limbs once tense and bent with excruciating agony were utterly limp and lifeless. It was as if all the life had been drained from his body, leaving only a fading glow, a dying shell that had once housed a great and magnificent spirit. The flourish of nature had abandoned the flesh, and a vibrant creature had been laid to waste by a terrible black magic. Beneath the bruises and blood was the true foul craft, and its violence was devastating. Legolas lay silent and still. His chest barely moved with breath. He was terribly pale, and the wounds to his face made his countenance appear even whiter and more drawn. His eyes were sealed shut as though to trap him in a world of torture and torment. An Elf destroyed. A warrior defeated. A brother…

"Leave me."

The soft, angry hiss of breath drew Faramir's miserable attention, and the steward turned his gaze away from Legolas' comatose figure. He was so shocked by the Elf's rapid deterioration that the sorrow and spite laced into those quiet words did not register. Instead, he shook his head and looked back at the prince, alarmed and frightened. It did not seem possible! How could he have faded so rapidly, so abruptly?  _I thought we had time. I thought we had a chance!_  His lips barely moved as he mumbled, "How could he have weakened so rapidly?" With deafening thuds his feet brought him closer to the bed, his hands reaching for Legolas'. "How could - "

"Do not touch him!" roared a shadow from beside the bed. The dark figure rose sharply and turned blazing eyes upon Faramir. The steward drew a sharp breath and recoiled, surprised by the sudden motion. "Get out."

The seething words immediately instilled fear and grief into Faramir, and for a moment he did nothing but gaze mindlessly into the swelling blackness. The sound of rushed breathing was amplified in the vacuous quiet. Eternity passed slowly, minute after minute, second by second, breath and beat. Then the fear and sorrow melted into a fire of anger. "With all due respect, sir," he said, struggling to keep his tone level and his eyes calm, "I believe it is time you hear my report." The enraged shadow did not speak or move again, shifting only slightly as it breathed. The lack of response aggravated Faramir further, and he clenched his fist. "Fine, then. I will speak it, even if you do not wish to hear it." The words came quickly, and he did not try to control them. He did not fight to keep the emotion from shaking his voice. "They have stopped their assault for the evening, but I doubt it is out of consideration for our sadly diminished troops. Holis is confident, my Lord, confident and calm. He does not need to rush, for he is certain we are defeated." A sigh. "Archers guard the Gateway in shifts. Supplies dwindle. Every fletcher in the city is laboring to replenish ammunition stores, but they cannot contend with the need. Our casualties are minimal, but it is highly unlikely we have inflicted substantial damage on them. I… I have sent birds seeking the army, and thus far I am uncertain whether they survived. I hesitate to have any hope. The evacuation proceeds slowly. I doubt there is food or housing enough to support the citizens. I also doubt Holis means to slaughter them, but that is a chance we cannot take, can we? He has proven us the fools before, and I do wonder who we might sacrifice this time for the sake of our ignorance." A harsh chuckle. "The Gateway holds for the moment. They are attempting to raise the ground outside the wall, presumably to allow the Mûmakil to elevate their soldiers to the parapet. They will not touch the gate itself for fear of damaging it." A shaking breath. "You realize what this means, of course. They intend to preserve the integrity of the wall and gate for their own purposes. If they take the first circle, they can use our own defenses against us. Our army, should it return, will have to besiege our own city to be of any assistance."

Silence. The truth was there before them, cruel and undeniable. The venomous words echoed. They shattered Faramir's ire, and his bravery exited his body on a shaking sigh. "And that is not the worst of it," he whispered. He turned away, crossing his arms over his chest and blinking back his tears. A lump crawled into his throat, choking him, and his chest ached and burned. "The worst of it is this one truth, and it is terrible and undisputable. We are fools." His form shook in his restrained rage. "We are fools and cowards. You are King, and I am your Steward, and we are cowards!"

"I could not have known!" Aragorn yelled. He stepped into the light, and the trails of his tears glistened upon his cheeks. In those dark eyes was the glint of crushing sorrow, of unspeakable rage, of encroaching madness. "I looked but did not see." His voice twisted and cracked in despair. "I heard but did not listen! It is all so clear now when I can stand at the end and gaze back at the path. I do see the mistakes, Faramir! I understand the wrong choices, the naïve assumptions, the blind and senseless faith! How carefully he planned so that I would know all the errors we have foolishly made, all the atrocities I have committed…"

Faramir shook his head. "What atrocities, Aragorn?" he spat tiredly.

"Legolas–"

"You did not do this to him!" exclaimed the steward. Faramir turned and skewered his lord with a furious glare. Never before had he openly shown such anger to his king. "You are not responsible!"

Aragorn was dark and malignant, a violent, seething wraith. Faramir could see the muscles of his face work furiously as he clenched his jaw. "Do not take from me this blame! Do not shift this disgrace to another! You do not understand all that happened. You were not there when Legolas came to me, when he sought comfort and I gave him naught but coldness, when he pleaded that I listen to his warnings! You did not see the terror in his eyes when I touched his skin nor did you hear the pain in his voice when I told him he had only dreamt… But it was no dream. Nor was it a message. It was the future, and I did not believe him! I did not listen to him, he who has served me as a soldier and a lord, who has helped me become what I am, who has forsaken the fate of his people for my ambitions, who has loved me as his brother! I doubted him…" The words came quickly, and they were laden with the depths of his misery. Faramir's spirit quaked at the extent of Aragorn's agony. "Even in my darkest moments, he has never done me such a dishonor as to deny the worth of my advice."

"Legolas would not wish you to suffer this way, Aragorn," Faramir declared. "He will live! He is not lost, and he will not condemn you for matters beyond your control! You know him. He is not cruel!"

"You cannot say he would not blame me for what has befallen him," snapped Aragorn. He jabbed a finger at Faramir and choked on a sob before stumbling into another mess of confessions. "You saw what those monsters did to him. You saw the destruction they laid upon his body! He did not deserve to pay so dearly for my mistakes… They tortured him so brutally! And for what? Why? To prove their villainy? To enrage me? To stand now at this moment and  _gloat_? If he wished to defeat me, he should have faced me and me alone!" The king slammed down his fist into the night table, and the structure rattled precariously with the blow. "It was not enough to simply win, was it? Only this way can he prove his superiority, can he dominate me and he satiate his sick desires. He took from me what I hold most dear and used my own selfishness and ignorance to accomplish his goals. My own rage. My own mistakes!"

Faramir could listen no more. He stepped about the bed and grabbed Aragorn's tunic. Pulling the man close, he said lowly and evenly, "And you would let him make another weapon of your guilt. You would permit him to strike you dead with your own grief! Stop this, Aragorn. You must! You are not the only one who has made mistakes!" The pain welled up within him, and he could no longer swallow his shame. "It was I who foolishly walked into an ambush at Cair Andros. It was I who believed in Holis' persuasions and suggested that we have faith in his oaths. It was I who allowed Legolas to fight at Emyn Nimsîr and it I was I who let his hand slip from mine during the retreat!" He could barely breathe the pain was so great, and his vision blurred. "It was I who failed to see the truth even when the demon dangled it before my eyes. It was I who let fly past me the opportunity to stop this travesty from ever occurring." In a blink he was back in the dark woods of Emyn Arnen, watching as the archers aimed at Holis, caught in that moment in which the choice loomed before him. A different thought, a different result… He shook his head. "I saved him. I acted in a fateful moment, and even then he was not surprised. He was not  _at all_  surprised. He knew I would."

Aragorn had lifted his chin. His eyes had softened. His voice was weak and trembling. "I failed Legolas. I betrayed him then, and now I can do nothing to save him." The king sagged, slipping from Faramir's grasp and sinking to his knees beside the bed. Quivering hands grabbed Legolas' limp fingers, squeezing them tight. The man's brow dropped to the mattress, and his shoulders shook. "If only Gandalf had remained… If only Lord Elrond were here! If only… It must be a lie. He lied about Legolas, as he has about everything else! This cannot be true!"

"Aragorn…" Faramir's hand fell to the king's shoulder.

"How can I be so useless, so inept? How could I have been so blind and proud? The hands of the king… they have done nothing but drench this nation in blood!" A whimper issued forth from the huddled form. "I am no king. I am no friend or brother. I am no healer!"

"Still your grief!" demanded Faramir. Aragorn turned to look upon his companion, his gaze now empty and open. "You cannot do this, Aragorn. You cannot be so vulnerable, so impaired in thought and act! Yes, we have made mistakes. Yes, we have ignored warnings and cast aside doubts in favor of a seemingly alluring peace! Yes, we spoke when we should have listened and moved when contemplation was the proper course! But we cannot falter now. We must not stumble under the weight of guilt and shame!" Faramir shook his head. These statements were strong, and for the moment they sounded right and true to his throbbing ears. "It is what Holis desires, Aragorn. It is what he expects! He lured us out into that field to show us the horrors we have permitted, to drown us in our faults, and he intends to use our despair against us. We cannot allow him that. If we wallow and suffer now, we will lose this battle ere it truly starts."

Thin lips hardly moved as Aragorn whispered, "But I am not strong enough. I am not good enough! I am hardly worthy of my title. He has bested me."

"He has cheated and lied," corrected Faramir. "Perhaps it was foolish to trust, but we acted in the best interests of our nation. Of our race. We acted humanely and morally. That is not a defect! Against those that honor no compassion or civility it is a weakness, but we must never forget that we are true to the peace we prescribe. We did not deceive them, and we did not deceive ourselves." Faramir dropped to his knees before his king and grasped Aragorn's shoulders gently. "Yes, we have made mistakes. But we must rise above the mist and bloody fog and  _see_  our path. We have wandered too long in a slough of mendacity and manipulation. We can sacrifice no more." He calmed his voice and breathed slowly. "You are king, Aragorn, and your nation needs you."

A minute passed in which Aragorn said nothing. In that time, Faramir saw the storm within him abate. The light reached his eyes. The steward knew he was reaching through the heavy veil of depression to offer the king consolation. He steeled himself and spoke further, hoping his tone would not reveal how little he believed his own words. "Legolas is strong. He is strong and he is brave. Have hope, for he will not succumb. I saw it with my own eyes. He looked at me, spoke my name… He fights this." Faramir could not bring himself to look upon the still body in the bed, though Aragorn's eyes darted between the steward and the Elf. "We can find him. Perhaps Holis did lie… Perhaps there is a way. We will help him. We will bring him back. I am sure of it." His palm slid from the ranger's shoulder to join in holding Legolas' limp hand. "I  _know_  he is with us."

They were still for a long time, fingers interlocked, hearts reaching for each other. Aragorn intently watched Legolas' face as though desperately searching for some indication that there was truth in Faramir's words. Faramir, in turn, gazed upon his king, praying desperately that Aragorn would maintain faith enough to pull him from this choking mire and return him to his senses. The steward found he did not have the strength to breathe. So much depended on this moment. Subtle and soft, it would decide the fate of Gondor. The kingdom would fall without her king. Her king would wither without hope. It was a logical inevitability, and Faramir wished with every fiber of his being that he had been wise and powerful enough to prevent the fate of their nation from resting upon the fate of a single Elf.

Finally Aragorn sighed and lowered his head. He might have spoke an apology or vowed to again rise to the command of his nation. But he did not do what Faramir hoped he might. Instead, he simply nodded, and though the steward was woefully unsatisfied with that result, he did not broach the matter again. Gimli had been right. Legolas' condition blinded Aragorn, and the addition of the heinous knowledge of Holis' carefully enacted betrayal had only made worse an already awful situation. Still, the response was at least an acknowledgement of the problem's existence. Faramir supposed he could not expect Aragorn to immediately propose the panacea to all their difficulties. It was sufficiently relieving to know that the king realized the dangerous path he was walking by ignoring his duties. It would have to be.

Holis had used Legolas against Aragorn so very well, but it could not be so any longer.

Compassion cut through Faramir's anger and frustration. "Please, my Lord, seek some rest. Your wife worries for you." Aragorn looked up once more, and his gaze gained focus as though he was suddenly remembering the pain and fear he had caused his fair queen. He opened his mouth to protest, but Faramir interrupted him tenderly. "I will stay with Legolas this night. He will never be alone; I swear to you."

The oath appeared to satisfy him, for Aragorn nodded after a moment. His face fell slightly, and Faramir observed the paralyzing grip of exhaustion squeeze his bent body as pressed his lips to Legolas' fingers. Then he rose and, without another word, departed.

When the door closed with a soft thud, Faramir was alone. The darkness swept closer to him, and the silence rang shrilly in his ears. The steward remained kneeling beside the bed until his joints began to pain him, and even then it took a great deal of effort to will his hurting body into motion. The idea of spending the night cramped in a stiff chair bothered him for such treatment would do his already aching limbs no good. But the complaint of his body was a whining whisper that was hardly heard over the wail of his conscience, and he sank miserably into his seat.

The candle flickered. Its meager light was not enough to ward away the demons, and in the quiet they screamed gleefully their scathing accusations. He was a liar. He was a hypocrite. He did not believe they had the strength to make right all the wrongs that had occurred. He did not know if they could win this war or save their city. He was uncertain if they could aid Legolas when the Elf was afflicted with an evil of which they knew nothing. Deception had flowed freely from his traitorous lips, and though he had perhaps restored to Aragorn some semblance of sanity, he had done so falsely.

The damage had been done to them. It could not be undone. It was already too late.

" _Above all else, show no fear. You are a pillar to the nation, and you must not buckle."_  The old scholar's voice faded into a mist of misery and terror, and he lost his control. His strength failed him, and all he had held inside for so long poured from him.

He leaned forward, collapsing tiredly onto the bed, and his body shook. Tears spilled from his eyes, and for the first time in many years, he wept piteously and without repose. Unabashedly he sobbed, spilling from his soul the putrid filth of his anger and guilt. His traumatized mind centered upon one undeniable fact, and for all the want of his heart, he could not refute it. They had lost too much, and there was nothing they could do to make that right. Even if they somehow managed to survive this siege, which was truthfully unlikely, they could not restore life and beauty to Cair Andros or Linhir. They could not resurrect those that had foolishly given their lives to this bloody cause.

Legolas was dying, and there was nothing they could do.

He cried for the things he had done and for the things he had not. He wept for his land, for his people, for his men and for his soldiers. He wept for his friends and his king. He wept for his wife. But mostly he wept for himself.

Who was he to deny Aragorn guilt when he so righteously coveted it himself?

The night was vast and open, and demons did not sleep.


	29. By Chance the Truth

"My Lord?"

The sound was distant and soft and unimposing. Sleep barricaded the gentle words from the machinery of thought, and for a long moment the quiet utterance held no meaning. Yet soon after the calm tone came again, and with it was a tender push to his shoulder. Combined, these sensations were enough to pierce the blanket of exhausted apathy about his mind, and slowly his eyes opened.

Faramir grunted and blinked rapidly in hopes of clearing the cloudy remnants of slumber from his aching eyes. The world was tipped horridly, and it took him a few moments to recognize the dull pain of his neck and back and properly deduce that he had fallen asleep in a chair. Grimacing and dizzy, he leaned up. The muscles so tortured by a night spent in such a position protested the movement heartily. Stiff hurt left him groaning a moment, and he squinted as bright light struck him.

Dusty curtains had been thrown back with a loud rustle. Sunlight streamed into the room, and immediately the steward's once beleaguered mind realized where he was. Nurses and healers rushed about, working around his sitting form as though he did not exist. Some bore fresh linens crisp with starch. Others carried buckets of steaming water which were carefully emptied into the tub just beyond the changing area. Maids were quickly and conscientiously cleaning, dusting tables and other furniture with zeal and cheer Faramir had thought long crushed by the gravity of war. His mind was left reeling from the sight as the warm and bright illumination spread into the once dark and dreadful prison. As life seeped back into bleeding hearts.

As inexplicable as it seemed, a beautiful morning had come. A new day was beginning.

"My Lord Faramir?"

He turned at the sound of his name and found himself gazing upon Ioreth. The woman's eyes were dark, but they were not without a sparkle of hope. Surprise claimed him, and his stupefied mind could not direct his paralyzed lips into words. Finally he recovered, though it seemed a great eternity had passed while he had struggled to comprehend this transformation. "What has happened?" he hoarsely asked of her.

Ioreth smiled compassionately and knowingly. "I had feared you might sleep forever. Granted your choice of locations was not the most comfortable, but you appeared so peaceful that I had not the heart within me to order you moved."

Dumbfounded, he did not answer. A blur of motion to his right drew his attention. The healer and a few of his aides were gently lifting Legolas' limp body from the bed. The Elf sagged in their grips, his head lolling unresponsively as the group supported his deadened limbs. The men blocked his view as they removed the lifeless body from the bed. His mind lethargically tried to make sense of this, and then his heart halted agonizingly in his chest. Cold terror claimed him. Had Legolas died? He had not seen the Elf's chest rise and fall with breath!  _Ai, no… Please, no!_  Faramir stood abruptly, worry and shock washing over him in jolting waves. "What is to be done with him?" he demanded, unable to keep his confusion and fear from his edgy tone.

Ioreth chuckled slightly. "He is to be bathed, my Lord, and his limbs massaged to prevent deterioration. Then we shall attempt to feed him a bit of broth. The prince has lost too much weight, and our King fears the poison administered to him continues to deprive him of his health. The King orders we do this whilst he labors to concoct a brew that might counteract the toxin."

Faramir's jaw fell open dumbly. "He does?"

Ioreth dipped her chin. "Aye."

 _Can it be?_  One of the healers called from the other side of the bed where Legolas was being rid of his nightclothes, and Ioreth quickly excused herself to join them. Faramir felt himself nod, his thoughts racing, struggling to overcome the hurdle of his surprise. It seemed too impossible! His heart began to pound in his chest, and his empty stomach twisted in nauseating joy. Could Aragorn have climbed from beneath the smothering and immobilizing weight of his grief and guilt? Could their king have returned to them? It had appeared to be an implausible dream the night before, when Aragorn had done naught but rage and mourn while their city was besieged. Faramir had deemed his efforts mostly fruitless, for his harsh words and desperate demands had done little to raise Aragorn from the pit of their faults. It was evident now, though, that deeming his ambitions ineffective had been perhaps a bit premature.  _Aragorn's orders! I cannot believe it!_

A bout of relief struck him like a punch to the face, and the force of it returned his numb body to the uncomfortable chair. There he sat, feeling as though he might cry for the elation caressing his beaten spirit. It seemed irrational to garner such euphoria for this, a most miniscule of victories. In a grander perspective, it would neither bring Legolas' soul back to them nor defeat the cunning cruelty of their adversaries. But Faramir was so accustomed to crushing misery that even this, the smallest of triumphs, was inspiring. Hope came back to his heart. He welcomed its whispers of brighter futures and glorious outcomes. Suddenly all would be well. Suddenly they could act.

And act he did. Though his body whined for its callous treatment, he rose. Emotion meshed with purpose, and his mind was overthrown with thoughts. What of the battle? Surely it would have begun again by now! And of the army? Was it possible any of his messages had reached Éomer and Imrahil? What if Aragorn was able to find a cure? Was it not conceivable that, given the plethora of falsehoods Holis had spoken, his information regarding Legolas' condition was a lie? It was as if his newly rejuvenated faith was spreading wide, wildly bringing hope to everything it touched. There was abruptly too much to do, and he needed to hurry.

"Where is my wife?" he demanded suddenly, finding that after the mess of contemplation cleared, assuring himself of Éowyn's safety was the most pressing of tasks.

Ioreth turned from watching the healers tenderly lower Legolas into the steaming bath. "She and Queen aid the King in the Houses of Healing, my Lord." Faramir thanked her then, and turned quickly. He felt the fool for having slept so long. For having wallowed in a mire of doubt and dread. For having lost himself.

Though his sore legs were clumsy in the first of the steps, soon they regained their customary strength. Their purpose. Focus came to him, and strength returned to his once bent form. As the healers set about caring for Legolas, he fell from their attention. He stopped at the open door, watching for a moment as they worked, seemingly oblivious to anything beyond the comfort and health of their patient. Ioreth spoke softly to another of the healers, her hand tenderly rubbing Legolas' pale cheek. The sweeping motion of her thumb was minute and barely discernable, but its compassionate solace was blatantly obvious. Faramir felt something inside him relax ever so slightly. He knew well the depths of Ioreth's heart. She had many times in the past comforted him with the very same motherly caress when he had been sick or hurt or even simply sad. Her love was an example for all, and he knew Legolas would come to no further harm in her care. He observed their steady grips and calm eyes. Their world was confined to this room and their charge, and inexplicably the steward knew he did not belong. He was not needed there. Thoughts of the battle, of Aragorn and Arwen, and of Éowyn fluttered across his mind, and he turned to leave.

Arguably fate acted to set those lost upon the correct path when it felt so inclined. The antics and machinations of fortune were beyond the minds of men, for such foresight was a virtue not easily understood. Though destiny was perhaps a fickle beast, it was not without moments of ironic kindness, of unrequited generosity. This was one such instance, for as Faramir pivoted the wind grew in intensity enough to rustle the heavy drapes about the frame of the window. This small alteration in the density of the fabric skewed the bright daylight sufficiently to scatter the rays at a novel angle. One such beam happened to strike a pile of black clothes haphazardly shoved onto the desk chair. Though the folds of bloody sable, the light reached a bit of silver and pink, and it glistened. In that split second, Faramir's eyes caught the tiny sparkle. Then the breeze faded, and the curtains fell back. Still, it had been enough to catch Faramir's attention. To elucidate the mistakes of the past and make light the path of the future.

The man's brow furrowed in confusion as he halted and held his breath. For a moment he was still, wondering whether the twinkle had truly existed or if it had merely been a product of his weary imagination. Whatever doubt assailed him was simply not enough to stomp out his curiosity, and he approached and then parted the concealing black cloth. Clearly these were Legolas' garments, most likely dumped here in the rush to create space in the healer's quarters for the newly wounded. A shudder crawled up his arm; a foul aura seemed to cling to these sable clothes. Still, his fingers swept inside, and they brushed against something cold and smooth. He pulled it loose from the dark cloth.

Faramir narrowed his eyes as he lifted what he had procured. It was a necklace, the same one he had previously seen on the small table in the healer's quarters. A small gem dangled on a silver chain. He peered into the jewel, wondering at its crafting. It was dull, utterly black if not for the hints of crimson coloring the lattices. No light seemed to penetrate its sleek surfaces, even when he tipped it into the rays of the sun streaming inside the room. More curious than this was its grotesque allure. It seemed to possess a cunning spirit, a soft voice that whispered temptations and persuasions. It was a trifling matter that the gem promised nothing in particular. The act of its promise alone was enough to reward him for continuing to gaze into its abyss. With sleek fingers it drew in his sight, his mind, his will, and he was helpless to prevent its ministrations. The world closed in about him, and he was almost happy to relinquish to its seductive demands his very spirit.

Then he remembered this was only a small shard of rock, and that he was holding it. His trance shattered, and the world snapped into motion around him. Sound reached his ears, sight touched his wide eyes, and he breathed. He closed his hand about the pendant tightly, the pointed ends of the stone digging into his palm. A shudder worked its way down his back, his flesh crawling in cold relief. The experience had been… powerful. Disturbing. This was no ordinary stone. He was sure of it. The gem was ice to his sweaty flesh, and he gritted his teeth as he turned, his tingling body reminding his leaden mind of his previous objectives. He slipped the pendant into his pocket, and he was walking.

* * *

The Houses of Healing resembled more a chaotic marketplace than the orderly ward it normally was. In its large courtyard a vast group of people had assembled. The sheer volume was astounding; hardly a square foot of cobblestone was visible beneath the crowd. Everywhere people milled about, eyes forever glancing to the gates of the building as though waiting desperately for action. Though they spoke in hushed tones to each other, the frustrated, frightened, and angry voices meshed together in a throbbing pulse of sound. Desperate was the rumble of misery from the group. They were terrified and furious, and clearly they expected their king to ease their minds.

But Aragorn had not emerged from the massive building, and the mob of crying children, worried women, and panicked men was becoming quite vehement in its demands for comfort, or at least answers. Faramir grunted as a particularly large citizen beside him bellowed his rage at the wait, his deep exclamation made far too close to the steward's ear. Gritting his teeth against his mounting headache, he pushed his way forward as carefully as possible, fighting to control his temper as he struggled through the shifting and shouting bodies. An elbow jabbed into his side, sending the breath from his lungs and sending the world into a spinning, nauseating mess. Once he managed to inhale again and collect his wits, he continued on his journey, his mood growing fouler by the moment. Did these people not recognize him as their steward? Where was their customary respect, their adherence to decorum, their reverence?  _War deprives even the strongest souls of civic morality,_ he thought in sadness and a bit of disgust _. Desperation leaves little thought for propriety._

Finally he reached the gates to the Houses of Healing. The guards stationed there immediately picked his familiar face from the crowd, and thankfully they acted quickly to pull him free from the mess and usher him inside the stone and iron entrance. Those nearest the front of the horde yelled their disapproval at his seeming special treatment, and their eyes glowed with rage in the morning sun. "Why does he get to go inside?" a woman shrieked, stabbing a finger in Faramir's direction. Her long face was hard and taut with her indignant fury. "We have been waiting for hours!" This comment incited a chorus of angry cries from the group.

Faramir's patience nearly abandoned him as he turned. He had intended to simply enter the Houses and forget this rabble, as there was too much to do without having to deal with unhappy denizens acting childishly. During his quick walk from the Citadel to the Houses, he had encountered Beregond. The two had briefly conversed about the defense efforts, and Faramir had been extremely satisfied to learn that, though the Haradrim had begun their attack early that morning, they had hardly made any progress. Their attempts to raise the ground outside the Gateway were as yet unsuccessful. The enemy's casualties were mounting far more quickly than Gondor's were, but this fact remained encouraging only so long as he could blind himself to the greater truth that the hundreds of Southrons they had managed to wound or kill meant nothing compared to the many more waiting to attack. Beregond had explained with chagrin that their adversary had clearly reinforced his position during the course of the night, for the size of the opposing army had seemingly doubled when the cover of darkness had lifted. Though his friend had been greatly riled by this prospect, Faramir had not allowed it to disturb him. At this point, a bigger army meant little. They could not contend with ten thousand men. Discovering that they in fact faced twenty or thirty or one hundred thousand was a rather moot point.

Regardless, their defenses were holding admirably, and that was relieving at least. It meant there was yet time to construe a plan, a counter-attack if possible. Though their weapons supplies were at the moment sufficient, it would only be a matter of time before their cache of arrows dwindled. Before enough men died to weaken their position. Before the Gateway fell to the pounding of the enemy's hatred. Faramir's stomach clenched as he once again pondered the inevitability of it all. The Gateway was the strongest impediment to Holis' assault. It was Minas Tirith's proverbial backbone, its best and mightiest defense, the greatest obstacle that any siege needed to overcome. Once it fell, and it  _would_  fall, the Haradrim would swarm Minas Tirith. There would not be men enough to properly support a defense at the interior gates, and they would quickly succumb to the onslaught. Only the seventh gate would stand then, the last barrier protecting the evacuated citizens and their government from the violence of the invaders.

And that protection would not long last them.

Faramir shook his head, pulling away from these distressing and conclusions. With a great token of resolution he forced himself to focus on what needed to be done. They had time now, and they could not afford to waste it. A moment lost could not be again recovered, and, in this deadly game of war, mistakes had already proven disastrously costly. Simply defending their city would not be enough. They needed to strike, to somehow derive an advantage. If the resilience of the Gateway granted them hours, or perhaps a day (though he envisioned that to be a foolhardy and empty expectation), then he would be damned if he allowed such a precious gift to slip through hesitant fingers!

He narrowed piercing eyes and settled the crowd with a stare that was calm and compassionate but resolute and stern as well. "Hear me, citizens!" he bellowed, raising his voice over the din. Quickly the racket quieted as those present realized they were finally receiving the attention they so desired. Hundreds of pairs of eyes settled on the steward, and Faramir tightened his jaw. "I understand you are angry and afraid. To say your leaders are above the grips of such feelings would be a base falsehood, and I shall not dishonor you with lies. But we must not succumb to the whims of panic and desperation!" he bellowed. "Our enemy is vile and cunning. He will use our disorder against us. We must not allow that to happen!"

But the crowd was not so willing to listen to reason. It was a disheartening truth of mob mentality that, fed by the strength of numbers and the swell of irrational emotion, normal logic and sensibility floundered. "Why does the King labor to heal the Elf when our homes are under attack?" bellowed one man. Faramir could not locate this particular voice in the sea of angry, worried faces. "Why does he shun us for the Firstborn?"

"The Elf is a bloody murderer!" cried another man, and his declaration was answered with a murmur of hesitant agreement. The group knew it was skirting a dangerous issue with such a proposition. The burly fellow who spoke was not afraid, though, to continue with this disgusting madness. "I saw him shoot the King! With my very own eyes I witnessed him nearly murder our hope! He knew of the first assassination attempt as well, and do not try to convince me otherwise, my Lord! He is a traitor! He led those demons to our city!"

Faramir's patience cracked, bending precariously under the weight of his rage and reproach. "You forget who it is you accuse," he snapped coolly, his gaze freezing into an icy glare.

A woman near the front of the line shook her head, dirty blonde hair spilling loose from a tight bun to frame a stern pale face. Thin lips pulled taut as she spoke. "The Elf is not  _our_  prince, my Lord. He holds no bearing over this nation. We owe the Firstborn nothing!"

A chorus of affirmations followed, rising up and slamming into the steward with the violence of insatiable vengeance.

"We gave them land! We gave them goods! And this is how they repay us!"

"We are all going to die…"

"Kill the Elf! Treason is an act that warrants no lesser sentence!"

"I am so frightened. How did it come to this?"

"The King is a damn fool. I'm not forfeiting my life so that he can save that traitor!"

The logical voice of his conscience warned him about blaming them for their hatred was borne of fear and anxiety. But that tiny complaint was a whisper compared to his own anger, and he would not silence his rage for the sake of reason this time. These people had whispered their dissension since the beginning of this foul war, questioning, doubting, and accusing. Their soft complaints had become screams of dissatisfaction, and such an attitude was rude and unwarranted. It was disgraceful, truly, and he would not stand for it. "Be quiet!" he snapped loudly, his voice hoarse and twisted in his emotion. Gray eyes blazed in a furious storm of disgust and hurt as he scanned the mob of riled citizens. Immediately the panic quieted as the surprised group leveled uncertain eyes upon their steward. Typically Faramir was soft-spoken, rarely known to hotly anger and even less prone to displaying his distaste. In that respect he was most often likened to his mother, Finduilas, who bore a quiet spirit that much cherished thought and gentility over brash acts of temper. To witness him so infuriated and so openly revealing that fury obviously stunned the crowd. They expected agreement, after all. Agreement and acceptance. Action. "We owe the Firstborn nothing? That is a lie, a cruel and selfish lie that, were it not for the extremity of the situation, would be inexcusable. Need I remind you of all the Elves have done for this nation, their sacrifices that span over the ages?"

His question was met with a taut silence, but he had not truly expected an answer. His glare turned cold and malicious. "Perhaps these accomplishments are too far removed from the present to evidence this truth. Perhaps we ought to turn our prejudiced eyes to this war and this day, as our enemies storm our gates and our allies die around us. We must remember now the path we have walked to this moment, and we must not forget those that have made possible our survival. And let us not forget the Elves that have died these days past for this nation. Let us not forget that the Elves were among the first to engage the enemy at Cair Andros, and that many men were saved from the clutches of death by their quick minds and steady hearts." Faramir's shoulder throbbed in a sudden pang, and he subconsciously clenched his fist. "Let us not forget that this prince, this  _traitor_ , volunteered his soldiers in a battle not his own, and in doing so, sacrificed himself to our cause. Let us not forget what has been done to him, that he has been tortured and violated and turned against us. Let us not forget that we may yet fight because of the strength he and his kind has offered us and our King."

He quit his harsh words, and in their wake was a deafening silence. Not a word was uttered. Not a sigh was breathed. Surprise and shame choked them, and eyes were averted. Knowing he had succeeded in breaking their foolish rage, he lowered his voice and softened his tone. "Let us not forget these things. You dishonor your nation, your King, and yourselves with such groundless and selfish accusations. Against our enemies we have naught save our morality, our strength and civility! Our unity! If we doubt, we will fall." He lifted his chin resolutely and released a slow breath. "Now go back to your homes and see to your lives. Think on what you have said. Think on what separates  _us_  from  _them_. Speak no more ill of the Firstborn. Though he is not your lord, Prince Legolas has defended your people with more zeal and strength than many of you have displayed. Without question he has followed the will of your King, a simple task that, demonstrated by this moment, many of you cannot manage." The last scathing point was made as an insult, and its effect was tremendous. Heads were hung, and cheeks colored in shame. He inhaled deeply. "We  _will_  win this war. We  _will_  defeat this darkness together. Old alliances hold strong, and we will not fail."

A long, quiet moment crawled by the courtyard, leaving the last of the steward's words to echo powerfully in ears and hearts. Faramir turned then, his anger morphing quickly to apathy. He did not wait to see if the crowd dispersed. His disgust was potent enough to deny his heart any satisfaction. Once again he was reminded of the weakness of men. So simply was blame shifted and bestowed in the face of disaster. So easily did they forgo sensibility for self-preservation, for the power of righteousness. So completely was the worth of others forsaken for the worth of the one.

_And yet Aragorn fights for Legolas' life whilst his nation quivers, and I defend the Elf's sullied name. We are no better, really. A bleeding spirit conquers even the best intentions._

The gate creaked shut. One of the guards cleared his throat as he stepped to escort his steward into the Houses. "Sir," spoke the young man, his face sad yet open and unafraid, "you were right to do that. And what you said was inspiring. We  _can_  win. I feel it." Faramir did not respond, for he felt no such thing.

* * *

He was growing tired of finding the Houses of Healing in such a chaotic state. Picking his way through the throng of rushing people was wearisome, and though he was the Steward of Gondor and the Prince of Emyn Arnen, in this place Faramir was nothing more than another body fighting to reach a destination. Though the number of men wounded thus far was small, those injured deserved the best treatment. Also, to the minds of the healers, maids, and servants, at any moment the defense could turn drastically disastrous, and the Houses needed to be properly prepared to accept the influx of many wounded soldiers. Thus there was no time for propriety or for apologies when the steward's foot was stepped upon or a tray of odorous medicines nearly collided with him. A hum of barely restrained excitement dominated the area, driving feet in running and hands in work. The cries of the wounded were barely audible beneath the throb of constant shouting. It seemed so long ago that this place had been peaceful, quiet and content in the humdrum of everyday life and its small blunders. When mothers had brought children sporting bruises and broken bones. When soldiers only bore simple wounds, the sort that accidents on the practice field wrought. When the biggest threat was an outbreak of a minor malady. Everything was so strained, so twisted and tense and different… He wondered if the ghosts of Gondor's bloody history had come seeking their revenge. Violent and angry, they were punishing those that had relaxed in the prosperity for which they had unwittingly sacrificed their lives. He wondered if they would ever permit that peace to return.

After no small amount of pushing, prodding, and patience, he had finally made his way to the interior of the building. Here, in the darkened offices, the many books pertaining to the healing arts were kept. If Aragorn was searching for a cure for Legolas' ailment, it was more than likely he would begin in these vaults. Faramir's logic proved accurate, for stationed outside the door to the offices were two men of the Guard and two of the White Company. Both nodded to him as he approached. Their faces were stoic, but Faramir saw the fear in their eyes. It seemed no one was immune to the terror of this siege.

Quickly he opened the door and stepped inside. Like walking from day into night, he was plunged into darkness. A candelabra rested on the great oak table, dripping pale wax onto the wood as the candles shed meager light. This deep into the building prevented the addition of windows, and hardly any light from outside pierced the shadowy veil. The shadows advanced and retreated as the golden illumination flickered, but their timid actions could not lessen the earthly glow Éowyn radiated. At his entrance, she looked up from her stance beside one of the many bookcases, the tome in her slender hands forgotten. Her eyes shone in undeniable relief, and suddenly Faramir could bear this indifferent mask no longer. Closing the door tightly behind him, he rushed forth and swept his wife into his arms. Their mouths met hungrily, anxious to reaffirm deprived senses that passion, love, and life still survived in this dark, hurting world. Her smell, the touch of her silky hair and soft skin, the press of her lips to his… These things filled him with the sun, and he relished the warmth.

They stood still for a long moment, basking in the comfort of each other's presence, before Faramir reluctantly drew back from her. "The King?" he questioned softly.

"Gone," answered Éowyn in a worried whisper. "He went to the Gateway. He slipped out some time ago on the hidden paths to avoid the citizens crowding the courtyard. I fear our defenses are weakening." The last of her explanation stabbed him with guilt and dread. Could they have even less time than he had previously expected? When he did not speak, she continued, laying her head against his chest for support. "The Queen brewed a draught that might perhaps bolster Legolas' strength against the toxin. The King thinks it possible the poison depresses his body enough to make this  _thral-gûl_  strong upon him, and if we were to treat it, perhaps he might be able to overcome the darkness holding his spirit." Faramir said nothing. He saw the doubt swirl in her eyes, and he felt her struggling to believe her own words. He felt her fighting to have faith. "I have searched for hours, Faramir, hours and there is naught in any of these useless books about this curse!"

Angrily she turned and set the dusty volume she carried upon the table with a heavy thud. Then she sank tiredly into a chair, her elbows coming to rest on the old wood. Her forehead she leaned upon her chilly fingers, and exhausted eyes slowly closed. So rarely did she appear so defeated. Her pride was cold and strong, and it denied her the will to ever openly admit despair. Yet before him she did not hide, and now her thin shoulders shook in weary, worried sobs. "Oh, Faramir… What are we to do?"

He took a slow step, struggling to summon forth the will to offer her strength. He felt as though his knees would fail him and he would fall, but he did not. Another step. He dropped his rough hands to her shoulders. His fingers brushed her golden hair aside, lightly rubbing the soft skin of her neck. The sound of her weeping battered his heart; he hated to hear her upset. He hated to know she suffered. But he did not speak shallow promises or weak assurances. He did not make light of her concerns with worthless consolation. He only stood behind her and offered his silence.

For a long time it was quiet. Neither husband nor wife spoke, for both knew no simple words could speak of their love or their hurt. Both were content to merely feel the other's presence, to seek comfort in flesh and warmth and beating hearts. In the silence, Faramir did not think. He did not allow the rambling of his concerns and doubts mar this moment. Her love was a shield, a shield against his fear and anger. And yet, a particular notion poked through a chink in his armor. It would not be quieted, though he at first refused to oblige its whine for his attention. Eventually it prodded enough at him to demand that he address it, and he did so begrudgingly. A question came from his lips, one he had not truly thought to ask so intent was he on their multitude of problems. "Where did Legolas acquire that necklace?"

She did not move at first, though he was positive she had heard him. Then Éowyn stiffened ever so slightly and turned. Her beautiful face glistened wetly from her tears, but her heartache had been replaced by confusion. "Necklace? Which?"

Numb fingers dove into the pocket of his breeches and produced the pendant. He held it in his open palm before her. Her bright eyes focused on the stone momentarily, intrigue bringing lines to her forehead. She glanced to him as if asking his permission before carefully lifting the pendant from his outstretched hand by the shining silver chain. The golden light struck the dangling rock, but it seemed to swallow the illumination. "I have seen this before," Éowyn murmured, her eyes narrowed as she analyzed the pendant. "But it was not this color. The gem was a bright red and it shone like… like blood." The last of her words were a trembling whisper. "Where did you find this?"

Faramir dropped to a crouch, his eyes glancing between the odd pendant and Éowyn's perturbed face. "I first noticed it in the healer's quarters. It was among Legolas' clothing. Was he wearing it?"

Éowyn shook her head. The motion was barely perceptible, and her voice was soft. "He must have been. It is quite possible it was simply removed when we undressed him and completely forgotten. There were more pressing matters." Her explanation was plausible. Just remembering the chaos of those hours was enough to twist Faramir's stomach, and the pandemonium of the attack and subsequent nightmare was nothing compared to the jumble of his own thoughts and emotions. Certainly something so small and seemingly insignificant might have been missed in the rush to save Legolas' life.

"But where did he get such a thing?" questioned Faramir, his voice riddled with frustrated puzzlement. "And why would they permit him to keep it?"

Éowyn shook her head and stood, her blue skirts swishing with the motion. The necklace she returned to Faramir's hand. Her face was terribly pale, and her eyes were wide with frightened realization. "I cannot answer why he returned with it," she declared, her tone trembling. "But I know how he came to have it. It belonged to the child. It is Fethra's necklace."

Now he understood her trepidation, her shock. The same feelings spread over him, and a cold sweat tickled the back of his neck. His stomach became a rock dragging him downward, and for a moment he felt as though he would simply crumple under the weight of the horrendous knowledge. Immediately his eager mind leapt to conclusions.  _She gave it to him. Why would she do that? I know this necklace is somehow important! I can feel it!_  Then the black thoughts came, terrible and tantalizing. If the jewel had played some subtle part in this convoluted plot, and if Fethra had given it to Legolas, then…  _She cannot be involved in this! She is a child! She is innocent!_  Life was not so cruel, so vindictive, so cunning.  _Please, I will not bear it…_

Éowyn's mouth hung open limply. Her eyes sought his, imploring that the thought that had occurred to them both somehow not be real. Inaction suddenly disgusted him. He would not allow this to become another frustrating enigma, another unanswered question. He would not! "We must speak with her."

Éowyn's eyes were wide. "You do not think–"

He shook his head. "Nay," he assured her breathlessly, praying his voice held enough gusto to convince the both of them that the idea was too preposterous to be real.

But Éowyn was not convinced. Her hands gripped his arms, desperation digging her elegantly tapered nails into his flesh. "She loves him, Faramir. She could not have intended to hurt him!"

He took her hands and folded her slender fingers into his own. "I do not doubt that. But if she did give this charm to him, then she can tell us where and how she came to possess it." His thumbs brushed over her knuckles, and a strange brush of frightened excitement threatened to take from him his breath. His heart was already pounding in dreadful anticipation. "I am certain this plays some part in what has happened to Legolas, if not to us all."

Her eyes glistened with tears, but she nodded to his words. The notion was undeniably stressing, but to ignore its relevance was the act of a fool. Faramir released her hand, the pendant still clenched in his. The steward turned and pulled open the door, Éowyn following him quickly. The two made their way through the winding inner corridors of the Houses of Healing, silent aside from the thunder of their hearts and the whisper of plaintive wishes on rushed breaths. The guards trailed, uncertain as to their purpose but sure of their fright. Once they emerged from the interior, they stood facing the hectic common area where patients received immediate care before being moved to more secluded rooms as required. Faramir's quick eyes scanned their surroundings, and when he located one of Ioreth's older children helping a maid fold freshly washed linens. He quickly approached her, and she turned when he neared. Her eyes widened in sudden nervousness and surprise, and quickly she dropped into a curtsey. "My Lord Faramir," she said breathlessly, dropping her gaze respectfully.

He did not mean to be short or sharp with the girl, but his anxiety and apprehension forced a cross tone into his voice. "Where is the orphaned child, Fethra?" he demanded.

The color drained from the girl's face. "Outside in the gardens, my Lord, with the younger children. My sister watches them," she explained breathlessly. Faramir nodded curtly in thanks before pivoting and taking Éowyn's hand. The two and their retinue of unwanted protection rapidly pushed to the arched, open exit that led to the Houses' expansive gardens. Sunlight streamed inside, and husband and wife burst outside into the fresh air.

Faramir winced. His eyes had so adjusted to the relative darkness within the building that the brightness of the day pierced them with pain. A cold breeze hit him, rattling the sparse collection of colored leaves still clinging to the twisted limbs of the trees. Despite all the upset and terror of these past weeks, the gardeners had still meticulously groomed the lawns and flowerbeds, though both were beginning to show the withering of winter. A small group of children was playing with a few wooden toys near the path, and an older girl sat upon the nearby bench, glancing up every so often from her needlework to be sure that her charges were behaving. At the approach of the Lord and Lady of Ithilien, her jaw fell open and she stood, her forgotten sewing dropping to the brown grass at her feet. She curtsied as well, obviously stunned speechless. It was not often two such powerful nobles sought the audience of children. Faramir quietly informed that they needed to speak with Fethra, and she immediately went to retrieve the girl. The lord and his lady shared an apprehensive look as she whispered quietly to the group of laughing children. Faramir clenched his fist, and the pendant dug painfully into his flesh again.

Fethra turned, green eyes shining happily in the sun, the breeze ruffling mussed red hair. When she saw Éowyn, she needed no more convincing to abandon her games. Scrambling to her feet with all the grace of a child she stumbled eagerly toward them. "Ehwyn!" she cried gleefully, smiling broadly. Whatever doubts Éowyn might have held as to Fethra's part in this disaster disappeared, and she knelt gracefully to sweep the approaching child into her arms.

Éowyn laughed and planted a light kiss on the girl's nose. Fethra pouted, her lips protruding childishly as she asked, "How come you haven't come to see me, Ehwyn?" she asked, clearly quite miffed that the lady had not visited her in these days past.

Éowyn's face fell slightly. She looked to Faramir briefly, and though no words were shared, it was obvious to steward what concerned her. Legolas was alive, despite his current condition. Should the child be informed her caretaker yet breathed and struggled to survive? Should they further mar her hopes for peace and comfort by again twisting her sense of security? The child seemed happy, content in a new home filled with love and life. Why disrupt once more her life and offer her hope that might easily turn bleak and violent? She did not need to know. What would come of it if she was told the prince lived only to again have him taken from her? Innocence was too precious a gift to continually torment with pain and betrayal.

 _Innocence…_  The thought was sour, and he shook away the shudder threatening his composure. His eyes focused, and he abandoned doubt and misgiving for strength. He shook his head slowly, holding his wife's gaze firmly. She understood. Smoothing Fethra's unruly curls, she finally answered. "I have been… preoccupied, dear. I am sorry."

Impatience drove Faramir then, for his heart was aching and he could not bear this stress any longer. He began to walk, and Éowyn strolled by his side, Fethra nestled contently in her arms. Though his wife's slender form was rigid and tall with apprehension, the child was oblivious to the tension permeating the cool air, her thumb in her mouth as she snuggled closer to the White Lady's warmth. Once they had reached the edge of the garden where the stone walls rose high, Faramir stopped. Naked ivy snaked over the gray rock, bent and ugly without its summer foliage. How cunning it was! Pure and pretty, how those sly leaves hid the truth of the plant's purpose and deceived the idle mind into believing beauty over brutality. The ugly reality of it was clear now, when all the flowers and greens and life had dropped away: the ivy choked the stone.

Faramir turned. Though he did not wish to frighten the child, he could not shake the crawling sense of betrayal. Anger slipped into his tone, and his eyes were steely. "Fethra," he began, drawing the excited child's attention, "you must not lie to me now, and you must tell me everything." He raised his hand and opened it, exposing the pendant before the child's eyes. He expected some sort of response, though of what nature he did not know. However, her complete lack of interest worried him, as her eyes only glanced to his hand before returning to an exhilarated perusal of the leaves falling from a nearby great oak. Despite his intention to not leap to hasty conclusions, suspicion rose within him. Was a child her age capable of ignoring a dangerous topic for the sake of secrecy? He glanced to Éowyn, but his wife's gaze was locked on the seemingly innocent necklace resting in his palm. "Fethra, look at this. Please."

He adopted a gentle tone, and that was enough to attract her attention. Large green eyes settled on the trinket, and she smiled. "Papa's necklace!" she squealed, suddenly reaching for it. Something inside Faramir throbbed. This belonged to her father? He knew from Ioreth that the child's sire had disappeared during the War of the Ring. Was he wrong to suspect, to accuse in thought if not in words? He felt dirty and foolish. Still, another part of him, a piece both strong and angry, would not permit him to drop this topic. There was something to this, he was sure of it!

"This belonged to your father?" Faramir questioned, not letting the child snatch the jewel from his outstretched hand. She seemed to care little, tugging a bit at Éowyn's hair when the woman ceased holding her tightly. "Fethra?" he prompted when she did not respond. He was unsure whether her reluctance was borne from grief or guilt. Fethra finally nodded slowly. Faramir felt as though he was struggling to get a mischievous child to admit to some sort of prank. He prayed it was not so. "How did Legolas come to have it?"

Fethra buried her face in Éowyn's hair. "I gave it to Leglass," she murmured into the golden tresses. "It was prettier then. I gave it to him." Her face was scrunched in teary sadness.

Despite the wail of his shame and fear, Faramir remained steadfast in his quest. "When?"

"When he went to stop the bad men. When he left me and didn't come back."

His heart pulsed in saddened desperation. "Why did you give it to him?"

The response was little more than a disheartened whine. "I dunno."

The steward was getting frustrated. He frantically desired some sort of substance to validate this mistrust for he felt the awful wretch for questioning an innocent child as such! He gritted his teeth, his cheeks coloring in vexation. Had he truly become so paranoid, so lost and frightened as to guess at every shadow, at every hint of malice, at every scrape of a clue as to the pattern of the greater plot? Sighing, he pocketed the pendant, resigning himself to the stupidity of this venture.  _I am losing my mind. To believe a child capable of such a monstrosity…_

But ignoring these whispers was exactly the foolishness that had landed them in this disaster.

"The Elf said it protected Papa when he faced the monsters. Leglass was so sad, and I wanted him to be happy, so I gave it to him so it could protect him, too."

_The Elf?_

Faramir turned, shock like an icy breeze caressing his body. His eyes widened as he looked to Éowyn, and his wife mirrored his alarm. Immediately his mind began to race, possibilities flying about and leaving him excited and breathless. "Which Elf, Fethra?" Éowyn asked, her tone calm despite the fearful interest glowing in her eyes.

"I didn't know him," she admitted sadly, suddenly seeming older and more capable. "But he was dark and very pale. And he spoke quietly, like he didn't want anybody else to hear him. He wasn't strong or handsome like Leglass. Momma didn't like him. She said Elves never came to our city, and when they did, they brought trouble."

 _A dark and pale Elf…_  There were many who fit that general description, but Faramir boasted a sinking suspicion that the perpetrator of this was none other than Velathir. It made sickening sense; the same Elf who would poison his lord into a feverish haze would undoubtedly also plot to make permanent his fall. Unwittingly or no, Velathir, by giving this pendant to Fethra, had somehow set in motion Holis' diabolical plan. The thought made Faramir sick for all it answered and dizzy for the new questions it posed. This discovery did not elucidate what the pendant was, or what its purpose had been. It was obviously an object of great import else Faramir doubted Holis would have undertaken such a risk in employing it. Surely it was meant to come to Legolas, and whatever evil it exerted Faramir was certain concerned the Elf's withering condition. The fact that the gem had apparently changed color intrigued him, and though there was little solid evidence to substantiate such a theory, he was beginning to believe whole-heartedly that this jewel was intimately connected to the  _thral-gûl_. Why else would Legolas have been returned with it? Why else had Holis planned so meticulously that Legolas received it in the first place?

 _And how could Holis have been certain? How could he have known surely that this child would survive the attack, that Legolas of all those present would find her, and that she would love him enough to entrust to him this precious gem of her father's?_  Though Faramir knew Holis to be a creature of risk, even this was too far-fetched. Such a strain of events seemed too implausible to be dependable, and Holis was neither sloppy nor stupid. Granted he was a master at reading others, at anticipating thought, attitude, and action. But could he have possibly foreseen something so seemingly coincidental?  _Either he was certain the child would act as she did, or…_

"My Lord?" Faramir broke from his disconcerting reverie, turning around sharply at the call. When he found nobody there, his brow furrowed in confusion and his eyes dumbly looked to the distant entrance to the gardens. Then the deep rumble came again. "Down here, my Lord." Embarrassment burned red into his cheeks as the steward winced at his stupidity. A Dwarf stood before him. He was stocky, as was the way of his kind, gifted with intense black eyes that appeared to constantly scrutinize. A bushy brown beard complimented a mass of thick, braided dark hair. Faramir recognized him after a moment of fumbling through his riled brain for a name. It was Gimble, one of Gimli's aides.

Faramir swallowed, shaken by his interrupted train of thought. "What is it, sir?" he asked, his voice hoarse and alien to his throbbing ears.

Gimble grunted and nodded. "Gimli, son of Glóin, requests your presence, my Lord Faramir. You are to meet him immediately, if you would, in the Elf's room. He has found… something of interest."

The words failed to incite any meaning for a moment, as his head felt as though it was being stuffed with wool. Éowyn touched his arm when he failed to acknowledge the request, and he looked to her. Her face was open with her concern for him, Fethra still nuzzled into her shoulder and hidden by her hair. Drawing a deep breath, he collected his wits and nodded at Gimble. He prayed Gimli offered a more heartening find, for the implications of Faramir's own investigation were riddling him with nauseous fear and doubt.

Fate or freedom, craft or coincidence… There was no time left to wonder.

* * *

That silly necklace weighed nothing, and yet Faramir felt its black ruse slip inside him and drag him down. With intangible, tickling fingers it seemed to seep through the tight weave of his breeches to caress his skin. He felt it press his tired feet into the ground as though it was actively fighting to keep him away from his destination. It railed silently, making every movement a strenuous venture, and he grew increasingly certain that it was evil. It was struggling against discovery. It was a tool of war, a weapon of the shadow, and it was being dragged into the light.

As Faramir grasped the doorknob of Legolas' room, he dismissed these silly thoughts. There was no black magic working upon him, no dark enchantment that sought to make his legs leaden and his mind lethargic. These phenomena were the products of simple exhaustion, and his overactive imagination was escaping the reign of reason. He had never counted himself a paranoid man before, but his inclinations toward such a mindset at this moment were undeniable. The metamorphosis in thought disgusted him, but even as he brushed aside the ludicrous belief that a rock and a silver chain could possess a malevolent spirit, he wondered at its maddening allure. He pondered its queasy attraction, its soft invasion, its will to dominant and fill one's world with only its ambitions. Its visions. Even now it seemed to pulse in his pocket, beating in time with his racing heart. What devil had unwittingly slipped inside their gates? What monster had Legolas perceived as little more than a gift from a loving child?

What had it done?

He pushed the door open, eager to be free from the silence of solitude and the roar of his thoughts, and stepped inside. Closing the heavy wooden slab behind him and latching it securely, he sighed and turned.

Gimli was once again perched beside Legolas' bed. The Dwarf shifted, casting upon the steward tired eyes as leaned back in his chair. His stout form was bent with weariness. Faramir's eyes fell to the Elf, and he was relieved to see what might be construed as improvement. Though Legolas was as unresponsive as he had been that morning, a rosy blush had come to his cheeks. Freshly bathed, he looked… comfortable, limp and calm as he slept. He had been dressed in a clean pair of pants and a new tunic, and his bandages had been recently changed. He breathed peacefully, and though the wounds upon his smooth skin still marred his countenance horribly, his face appeared relaxed and serene. "He looks better," commented Faramir in a soft, thankful voice.

"Aye," Gimli agreed. "Lady Arwen administered a foul-smelling concoction that she thought might defeat the poison in his body. I was doubtful, and the brew reeked as though she had made it of rotting refuse. The Elf was lucky he could not taste that drink, let me say! And though I thought otherwise, it seems to have eased the press of disease upon him."

They grew silent then, eased by this turn of events. Faramir finally smiled ruefully. "It seems ages have passed since we last met like this, and yet it was only yesterday."

"War turns minutes to hours," Gimli commented evenly. The Dwarf sighed and motioned for Faramir to come closer. "I have come from the Gateway, Faramir, and though I was inclined to speak of this to Aragorn, I wished… to have a more substantive plan before giving the lad any false hope." Plan.  _Hope._  Those words made Faramir's heart pound, and excitement like lightning jolted over his weary form. The Dwarf grunted and took a long drink from a cup that rested on the bed stand. The steward mindlessly drew another chair to the edge of the bed, his senses fixated on his small friend as he sank into the seat.

Gimli breathed deeply, his eyes watching Legolas' still face blankly for a moment before turning to gaze at Faramir. The steward was encouraged by the glint of resolution fighting to be seen in those dark orbs. Gimli grasped Faramir's knee firmly and leaned forward. His tone was soft and his eyes were serious. Clearly Faramir was not the only one infested with paranoid thoughts, and that realization eased him. "We finished our survey of the gates. Though not all repairs were completed from the War, I believe they will provide ample protection. Good stone, it is, and hardy."

Faramir sagged slightly, hoping for more than this. He sighed raggedly, suddenly feeling again the aches and stiffness the previous night's uneasy sleep had awarded him. "It will not matter if there are no men to defend them. We cannot spare soldiers to properly man each gate. They will break through the Gateway, and our last defense will be the Citadel." He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, finding the headache had returned with a pounding vengeance.

Gimli grunted again, his eyes malignant and unfocused as he considered the grave words. He gulped a bit more of his drink, which, at this close proximity, Faramir realized was pungent ale. "I discovered something else in my investigation, Master Ranger. I know not if we can mount an offense, but we can certainly open the Gateway if we can recall the army."

Faramir opened his eyes and looked up, his blood running cold in sudden astonishment and hope. He doubted his ears for a moment. Could such a thing be possible? Was there a way to save this yet?

He did not know. He did not even have time to ask.

A loud cry pierced the silence, and something incredibly strong abruptly grabbed the front of his tunic. Faramir yelped, alarm claiming his paralyzed body, as he was yanked from his chair. His eyes widened as his form was violently pulled upward, the world spinning in horrifying circles. He might have thought to struggle, or to scream, or perhaps even to think if not for the overwhelming terror and sorrow that slammed into this hapless body.

Legolas' black eyes narrowed as the weakened Elf bore down upon him. Faramir did not have the strength to dislodge the legs that had clamped down about his chest. Fear had taken control of his senses, depriving him of the will to fight. Panic churned in his belly, demanding he act, but he could not even begin to force his leaden limbs into movement or his trembling lips in speaking. His heart hammered madly in his chest. It was happening again! His wide eyes locked upon the soulless orbs of the Elf, and Faramir saw nothing in them that was familiar. Nothing.

"Legolas! Legolas!" howled Gimli. Something cold and wet splashed over the struggling mess of bodies on the bed, and Faramir choked. Legolas' hands had closed about his neck like iron clamps, unmovable and unbreakable. A murderous glint came to that midnight glare, and those hands that had so many times in the past saved his life now sought to strangle the breath from him. Red splotches danced before his eyes, and his body began to burn in pain. Gimli was shouting madly, but Faramir could hear naught above the rush of blood in his ears. Blond hair fell into his eyes and all around his face. He was going to die, murdered at the hands of his dear friend.  _No! Not again! Not like this! Fight!_

There was no fight left within him. He could not explain it, but from the haze of terror and panic emerged a sort of guilty calm that eased his wailing spirit into the blackness. This was what he deserved. This was his punishment. He would die, as he had been meant to die on that balcony. It was only fitting.

But it would not be so. Suddenly the hands dropped away from his throat, and the weight fell from his chest. Faramir weakly rolled onto his side, gasping and choking. Tears bled from his eyes as he struggled to fill his tingling body with wonderful air. He heaved, his rasping so loud in his ears, drowning out the thunder of his heart. There was a bent form beside him, and that simple sensation spurred his own lethargic body into action. He could not think to cry or feel his misery. He could not think to allow his fear and anger to deprive him of energy to move. Not when Legolas suffered.

And the Elf suffered. He was sobbing, shaking intensely, curled into a ball beside Faramir. "Legolas?" the steward rasped. The fact that the Elf had very nearly killed him mere seconds before meant nothing. Faramir's throat burned as though agonizing flames had scorched it, but he spoke again. "Legolas? Please, speak!"

Gimli had crawled his way to the Elf's head. His face was a picture of myriad emotions, the strongest of which was relief. Though this sudden attack had been unprovoked and totally traumatic, it was action. The Dwarf brushed aside the mussed hair, tears building in his eyes at the Elf's pain. "Legolas, listen to us! You are safe! Do not go back to the shadow!" He grabbed Legolas' hand and squeezed it. "Feel my hands! Hear my voice, Elf! Hear me and stay with us! I know you fight this! I know you are trapped inside! Do not give up!  _Fight!_ "

Their words were not enough. Whatever force that had split the Elf from his comatose state was not sufficient to keep him awake, and his tense body stilled in its violent trembling. Faramir turned the Elf gently to his back, his trembling hands cupping Legolas' face. Half-lidded eyes stared weakly at the ranger. A glint of blue shone in the empty orbs, a shadow of the sky swallowed into the night. Pale lips moved. Words came on a weak breath. Faramir's eyes widened. Then Legolas lost consciousness.

Gimli shook his head. "What did he say?" he demanded breathlessly.

"'You chose wrongly.'" Many minutes passed before anyone moved. The utter terror of what had just happened hampered thought and feeling, and in those quiet moments, apathy snuck inside hearts. It promised relief, albeit brief, from the horror of what had just transpired. However, indifference was too weak a crutch, and it buckled under the strain of a guilty, suffering soul. When it snapped, life fell around them, and the world snapped into painful motion.

Faramir remembered to breathe. He blinked, and a tear dripped onto Legolas' still face. He bowed his head, his shoulders shaking in rancorous defeat. He did not know what to feel. The storm of emotion within him pounded and battered his control, and he was nearly willing to submit to its raging chaos if only to free himself from the staunch demands of stoicism. At least he could cry. At least he could indulge this weakness if strength would not avail him!

"Let us settle him again, Faramir." The voice startled him, and he nearly jumped from the fright. A firm hand fell to his shoulder. "Come. We must clean this mess." He had thought surely his will would flounder and he would simply come apart in that instance, but the Dwarf's simple words offered power. They offered an easy task for idle hands and a bleeding heart. They offered an escape from thoughts that tortured with shame and fear. Dear Gimli!

Silently they worked. Neither understood what had happened or what had been said, but they did not ponder or question. This new wound was too fresh, swollen with tears and blood, and they could not bear at the moment to examine its making or its consequences.

After tucking Legolas' again lifeless form into the bed, they set about washing the spilled beer from the Elf and themselves. "On the desk there is a basin with fresh water," Gimli declared softly. His stubby fingers belied their making with swift movements as they easily untied Legolas' wet tunic. Faramir numbly watched for a moment, wishing that this moment had been different, that Legolas had been saved by their words and wishes, that fate had intervened on their behalf. Then his legs moved, carrying him to the desk.

Fate was known for its subtlety.

The small desk was cluttered with material. Flasks of medicines covered its top, as well as piles of fresh and dirty linens. Bandages littered the center, rolled into neat balls and piled carefully. Indeed there was a brown basin, and in it was water. Faramir grabbed it, and he lifted a few clothes and towels from the center of the desk. He was about to turn away, his mind numb and his eyes dull, when a glint of gold caught his attention. Curious, he leaned closer, setting the basin to the desk again.

There, hidden under the piles of cloth, was the edge of an old book. Its ancient leather was cracked and weathered by time and water. It looked as though it had only recently been recovered, most likely from the vaults below the Tower of Ecthelion. Faramir's brow furrowed as he pushed the cloth back further, revealing the center of the tome. His heart stopped when he read the title. "Gimli," he called, "where did Legolas get this?"

The Dwarf was confused, but he shuffled closer all the same, alarmed by the harsh excitement in his comrade's voice. His eyes fell upon the book, and the tension fled his face in shocked remembrance. "After that boy from Linhir arrived, he went down to the vaults. He thought that…"

That boy.  _"They see all."_

He understood. Finally, he understood!

Fethra, the boy, the taunts and ruses and coincidences… This  _thral-gûl_ …

Legolas' dream.

That damn pendant! His hand fell to his side, pressing over his pocket and pushing the foul gem deeper into the cloth.  _Too see and make one see… To create and destroy._ And the words came. The evidence. The things he had heard but to which he had not listened. The clues at which he had looked but not seen!

" _You desire power. Power to control others as you see fit. Power to make the world appear right to your eyes."_

" _I make my own sun to rise and fall. I change what I wish when I wish it because it pleases me."_

" _I am captain of my soul. I am captain of the souls of others."_

" _To dream, perhaps, is the greatest power of all. Fantasy bleeds into reality, and all is possible."_

" _You_  still  _do not see!_  Look, _Faramir, and think. Your mind is torn asunder, and you perceive nothing clearly. The solution was there before you, and yet you chose the wrong one."_

" _You chose wrongly."_

Faramir choked on a sobbing chuckle. Madness glinted in teary eyes, and he leaned tiredly into the desk. It made perfect sense. How had all this happened? How had Holis known when to act, when to bait and offer, when to attack? How had he levied this torment upon Legolas? How had he managed this unbelievably convoluted plot without so much as one flaw, one mistake? Why had he anticipated every movement, known every decision, plotted around every obstacle? Why had Gondor fallen? Why had they been trapped in this ploy from the beginning?

Because they had been watched. They had been watched all along.


	30. Gods and Gamblers

It was beginning to occur to Faramir that nothing was as it seemed. From this conclusion stemmed another perfectly obvious proposition: perhaps it never  _had_  been. And then he had to wonder what had made him forget this achingly apparent truth. It needled him now, this realization, that months ago he had thought the very same of this gruesome situation. Ages of torture and torment had passed as the days had withered from late summer to early winter, and somehow during all this misery and terror, he had managed to convince himself of a lie. He had managed to put such incredible and unwavering stock in a damned  _illusion_. To believe in the greatest farce of all time.

_I am an incorrigible fool. I knew this then. I knew it!_

The steward let his eyes slip shut. Tiredly he braced his elbows on the table and leaned his chin on his palms. The headache had receded to a dull roar between his ears, and though exhaustion still left him decidedly muddled, in place of the miserable fear that had for weeks plagued him was now a striking, slightly euphoric calm. It was true enough, that old adage, that one need not fear what he understands. The mystery inherent in terror and superstition was what granted panic its power.

But he understood now. He understood all too well.

The inescapable truth of it all was this: there was simply  _no_  way Holis could have anticipated this terribly convoluted and mostly coincidental sequence of events. It boggled Faramir's mind to even consider the minute possibility their adversary was so well endowed with such foresight. A power so grand rivaled the abilities of the most potent Elves and revered legends, and it elevated Holis to an omnipotent status. Surely this veneration would be warranted. After all, if Faramir were to take the emperor's claims on faith, the conclusion was utterly amazing. Holis had superceded fate. He had studied and unraveled the whims of destiny and then used the abstract and often intangible patterns of coincidence to orchestrate his ruse. He had predicted every move and plotted accordingly without flaw or failure. He had played them all, driving hard at their weakness, and used their own failings to destroy them. He had acted a god.

 _Acted._  It was this incidental description, perhaps, that most poignantly reminded Faramir that Holis was  _not_  a god. He was only a man.

And men made mistakes. Surely he could attest to that.

But what a charade this had been! What a beautiful ploy! This cruel plot appeared so carefully constructed, and that was its greatest strength. It intimidated with hints of formidable power and unwieldy wisdom. It blinded its victims into a paralyzed, terrified stupor with its cool calculations and crucifying coincidences. For its daunting beauty, men did naught but stand and allow its wispy fingers to caress into their hearts fear and doubt. Certainly simple warriors could do little against a conspiracy that appeared to expect every move and counter swiftly and mercilessly. This was their worst failing. Doubt. It was what the designer of this heinous scheme had envisioned. He gloated in comfort knowing his plan had foiled the wits and senses of the smartest of adversaries. He waited in security, confident that his ruse, that his  _acting_ , had been flawless.

False security made men sloppy. Faramir could attest to that, as well.

He sighed and leaned back into his chair. His mind was racing with an unending stream of jabbering thoughts, but for once he did not feel frantic to sort them. He was satisfied with the tenuous grasp he had finally made upon the complexity of this situation. For the moment, it was enough to simply  _know_  that defeat was relative and that hope still remained. For the moment, realizing the existence of a weapon was more magnificent than understanding how to use it.

There was a rough grunt behind him, the noise gruff and tight with frustration. "I do not understand, Master Ranger, and I would be much obliged if you would be so kind as to explain this to me!"

Faramir drew a long breath and opened eyes that had slipped shut. He turned slightly in the desk chair, his hand subconsciously sliding over the smooth pages of the opened book. Gimli stood behind him, his eyes dark and angry. The Dwarf had lost all semblance of patience in these past minutes, and though Faramir was not in the mood to contend with the other's temper, he could hardly deny the stout warrior was justified. After discovering exactly  _what_  that damned necklace did, a blind panic had come over him. He was ever the planner, conscientious and expeditious in thought, and he realized instantly that knowing the pendant's power was a serious advantage. If it played the role he envisioned it did, their discovery could not be mentioned in its presence. So, despite Gimli's angry demands for elucidation of his sudden strange behavior, he had run from the room, bidding only that the Dwarf stay with Legolas and wait for his return. The pendant had felt heavier than ever before in those frantic moments as he rushed to his own quarters. He had to hide the foul thing. He had to make sure that it was safe, that it was silent! He had burst into his room, winded and red-faced, relieved to find his wife was not present. Numb limbs had carried him to the long, oaken chest beneath the open window. It had been his mother's, protecting within its sturdy frame the few things he had managed to save of her. He had never found it within himself to move the precious box from Minas Tirith, even though he now lived principally in Emyn Arnen. No one opened the chest without his permission; not even Éowyn would breach his trust by trifling through his mother's possessions without his leave. Although he had loathed placing the evil trinket in the purity exuded by the keepsakes, he had sealed it inside the chest, knowing it would not be touched.

After that he had sought the aid of a messenger, instructing the first one he had found to immediately summon the King to Legolas' room. He had wasted no words, his tone curt and sharp as he had stressed the importance of the request. Then he had practically run back to the Elf's quarters, his mind buzzing and his body shaking with the enormity of what he had discovered. Doubt had surfaced as his thoughts churned with the prospect, twisting and turning it as he sought answers. When he had again opened the door to the room, Gimli had skewered him with an annoyed glare and a barrage of terse questions had followed. Faramir had been too excited and riled to really pay the rancorous Dwarf his attention. Instead he had sat at the desk and frantically began to read from the tome Legolas had mysteriously found, searching desperately for confirmation of his hypothesis.

And he had found it.

The flowing scrawl of Adûnaic sprawled across the aged, yellowing page, but the black letters were as clear today as they had been the day they were written. Time did not breed falsehood into sturdy parchment and enduring ink. Faramir's fingers swept over the curves and lines of the penmanship, his eyes once again pulling the key items from the ancient text.  _Palantiri. Visions. Will._  The words swirled about in his mind like tendrils of shadow snaking through water, caressing to life thoughts and emotions. The itching rise of these sensations was not disjointed, but clear and sequential, and no longer did he have to struggle to make sense of it. His lips moved, and his voice was soft and calm. "Patience, Gimli. I shall make everything clear once Aragorn arrives."

The Dwarf growled. It was easy to forget at times that Gimli led his own people, that the stout warrior was the commander of the powerful forces of the Glittering Caves. Faramir had only truly known him as a friend with whom he had amiably shared stories over a few modest glasses of brew. In the peace since the War of the Ring, the steward had grown accustomed to Gimli's joviality, his eagerness to aid in any reconstruction, and his easy camaraderie. The other was warm and gruff but never without a sharp wit to compliment his loud voice. Faramir grimaced slightly as his eyes blankly roved the open pages before him. There was no hint of the complacency and compassion that typically crept about Gimli's gaze at that moment. They had all changed so much. Too much.

"I hope he hurries," muttered the Dwarf as he puttered back to his chair. Gimli was focused on Legolas, and steward found his gaze drawn to the Elf. Whatever peace that might have before eased the Elf had been horridly ripped from him, and now he lay in much the same state as he had nights ago. His hands clenched and loosened in their iron-like grip methodically. He was tense and tormented once more, a strange sweat bringing an ethereal sheen to his now heated skin. Faramir stood with a wince and stepped to the bed, a chilly breeze pushing inside the room to ruffle the curtains and the pages of the abandoned book. Gimli watched the man with suspicious eyes as he came to stand over the bed and rest a hand on the Elf's forehead. The once icy skin was now again hot to his touch, and Legolas grimaced at the contact. Faramir's heart sped in fear a moment, debating on the likelihood of his friend again awaking and attacking him. But Legolas seemed trapped once more in the undoubtedly hellish world of the  _thral-gûl_ , his eyes roving madly underneath tightly closed lids. Faramir's spirit throbbed in misery as he dropped his fingers to Legolas' neck and found the other's pulse pounding at an assuredly unhealthy rate.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead, sinking into the chair beside the bed. "It has returned," he declared sadly, his tone deflated and his shoulders slumped. This was beginning to make sickening sense to him as well, though he wished not to face it for its horror.

"Returned?" Gimli queried hardly. Vexed eyes analyzed Faramir's slouched form with a glint of desperate madness. "Explain that, Faramir! I will not wait! You have no right to keep this from me!"

The steward sighed. Anger and resentment bolstered his strength, and he sat straighter, settling Gimli with a taut glare. "The poison suppressed his body. An Elf, even one not so powerful as he, would never be hampered for so long by wounds like these. Still this–" The steward pulled open Legolas' loose tunic to reveal the aged, dark bruising about his left shoulder. "–and this–" His fingers swept down across the bandages masking the ugliness of the arrow wound. "– and all of these–" Angrily he gestured to the raw and swollen lashes that marred the Elf's heaving chest. "None of it heals! As this toxin hinders his flesh, this  _thral-gûl_  tethers his mind to a vile call. Holis said his soul was gone from him, from us, but I do not think so. Nay, that would not be so cruel, so vicious, as to have it trapped within a dying shell."

Faramir's eyes blazed. "You understand, Gimli, the nature of this demon. The healing draught Aragorn drafted and Lady Arwen administered did indeed act to suppress the dire effects of the toxin. But it has done him no good. You see, when his body withers, the dark spell is weak. It is denied the instrument through which it exerts its evil. When his form is strengthened by even the smallest touch of revitalized health, the black magic in turn becomes more potent. Its demands crush him back into the cage, and the monster emerges again." Legolas choked on his breath then, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Tears ran down his temples and cheeks, streaking into the sweaty mess of his hair. It seemed as though he could hear the terrible prognosis and knew that hope was as fleeting as the breeze that brought ice to the room. "It is a torturous cycle, with no end and no beginning. If we save his body, we sacrifice his soul to the shadow. If we wish to save his soul, we will be allowing him to die."

It disgusted him, but he knew without any doubt that it was true. The spirit should not be so separable from the flesh, but by some twist of fate or trick of devilry Holis had made it as such. And now, it was becoming increasingly clear to Faramir that they were going to be made to choose. Over and over again the emperor had manipulated them to a fateful decision, and repeatedly had they opted for an alternative that had rewarded them with naught but disaster. Every time they had chosen wrongly. Would they now do so again?

"He cannot force us to make that choice!" Gimli roared. Faramir looked up, slightly surprised. The Dwarf was on his feet in a breath, and his voice seemed to shake the very stone of the Citadel. "He is not so above us as to dictate the lives we value and the mistakes we make. He is a man, Faramir, no less or more than any other. Are we to permit him the power to mold our thoughts and actions by virtue of his supposed strength?"

The Dwarf was wiser than most, and stronger than them all. Days of doubt, of dread and despair… Faramir had struggled for so long to reach the same conclusion that Gimli now so valiantly offered. Everything was somehow simple to him. He was independent. He loved Legolas. He would not be controlled by his fear.

"Nay," said the steward, "we cannot."

Gimli's hand curled into a fist as it wrapped about the wooden foot of the bed. "Then we will fight. Against him. For Legolas." His tone dropped and thickened, and his eyes glinted. "For ourselves. He has no power that we do not give him."

No truer words had yet been spoken. The stubborn depression gave up its recent venture, warded away fully by the power of the truth. For once the steward was sure this rationale was right and good, not merely a figment of a mind desperately seeking to cope with pain. Hope was there. They could fight this. A man could be bested. A man could be defeated. A man could be killed.

A firm knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, and he stood as the portal opened. Aragorn stepped inside. He was adorned in a full compliment of silver chain mail. Above that he sported a black surcoat with an ornately woven silver and white tree spread across its breast. His hair was pulled back from his cheeks and brow and bound with a tight cord. His face was tired and drawn, but he held his chin high again and his shoulders were squared with pride. His eyes shone with weary determination.

The three were silent for a long time. Aragorn shook his head and released a long breath. He seemed to deflate before them, as though in the security of friends he could sag under the weight of leadership. "The defense falters. Their men have nearly reached the top of the parapet. They will surmount the wall in a matter of hours. I suspect the Gateway will fall with the sun."

Gimli and Faramir shared an empty look. Truthfully, no one spoke because there were simply no words that could combat the finality of this fact. Inevitability was suddenly poor consolation, cold and compassionless. The news carried with it an undeniably nightmarish quality. It was certain doom tolling. Without the Gateway, nothing could protect them. The Haradrim would flood the city, and Minas Tirith would fall.

Legolas moaned hoarsely, drawing the attention of his friends. Aragorn's long stride engulfed the distance between the door and the bed, and his wide eyes quickly scanned the strange scene before him, noting the Elf's changed appearance, the rumpled bedding, and the general disorder. Wet splotches from the spilt beer were still visible on the prince's bedclothes, and a particularly large stain marred the arm and shoulder of Faramir's tunic. The king took Legolas' hand, his fingers seeking a pulse at the wrist. "What has happened?" he demanded breathlessly.

Gimli grunted. "He awakened briefly, though not peacefully. For a moment he seemed cognizant of us, but he quickly slipped away again." The Dwarf shook his head and looked up to the man as Aragorn laid a large palm on Legolas' forehead. He had chosen not to speak of the attack on Faramir, and Faramir could not help but silently agree to omit it. It was too troubling, too difficult to explain, and Aragorn needed no further burdens or distraction.

Aragorn shook his head, his eyes wide and shining with angry helplessness. "I do not understand this!" he hissed, releasing the trembling Elf and retreating slightly from the bed.

"I see the truth, Aragorn." Faramir's soft declaration immediately drew the attention of the crestfallen lord. The steward remained captive of his swirling thoughts a moment more before meeting the questioning gaze of his king. "I saw it then, before Legolas even fell. Before Holis truly set this plan into motion. I knew it, but I convinced myself that it could not be true. I am sorry for that, my Lord. I am sorry I placed no faith in my instincts. Had I but listened to reason, mayhap none of this horror would have occurred."

Aragorn did not speak immediately, his high brow furrowed in confusion at his steward's words. The two lords held each other's gazes, seeking nothing more than an understanding between them. "You know how to help him?" asked the king evenly. Though his voice did not betray his wistfulness, his eyes shone in tenuous faith.

"Nay, but I know how it was done."

Again, silence. Then Gimli's temper frayed. "Speak, then, Faramir! This is no time for theatrics!" he snapped.

Faramir could not help but chuckle, though the sound was without joy. "An entirely apt choice of words, Gimli. After all, this has all been a play, an enactment to hide the truth. And we have been the most unwitting players in this grand show of gallantry and omnipotence. The fact of it is this: Holis anticipated nothing. If he planned, he did so with more than faith in himself. He spied upon us from the beginning."

"How?" coldly demanded Aragorn.

Faramir's voice was stern and equally angry. "The child's necklace." At the king's befuddled expression, he impatiently continued in his explanation. "It is a pendant, a small shard of stone seated in a case of silver. It belonged to the girl, Fethra. She gave it to Legolas." Aragorn's blank stare became a twisted look of anger and shock. "I found it among his things this morning. When I questioned her as to where she acquired it, she spoke of an Elf, a dark-haired Elf, who claimed it belonged to her missing father. I realized immediately. A dark-haired Elf? Surely it was Velathir who gave to her the trinket. I have not as yet questioned him to this fact, but naught else is so logical."

There Faramir paused briefly, for he abruptly realized his words were coming in a quick and jumbled fashion. He did not wish to confuse his companions. Aragorn nodded slowly. "Go on."

"I wondered at this, Aragorn, for it seemed terribly strange. Obviously Holis made a great effort to ensure this necklace made its way into Minas Tirith. He claims to be a man of risk, but there was no way he could be certain that Fethra would survive the razing of Cair Andros  _and_  somehow deposit the gem in the White City. This irked me, for as I examined the pendant, I realized that it is no ordinary stone. It has an unusual quality to it, an alluring whisper of reward for a mindless stare. It was certainly magical and undoubtedly evil. Even more, the rock appears to have shifted its appearance during the course of this war. According to Éowyn, it was at one point a very striking red. Now it is nearly black, a color so dark and foreboding that it catches no light at all.

"And yet I could not fathom its importance. It was heavy on my person, heavy and hot, but I could not discern  _why_  Holis had labored so to ensure its appearance here. Or why he chose to return Legolas to us with it, when our friend was otherwise stripped of his clothes and…" He trailed off, unwilling to entertain the further losses Legolas had sustained during his captivity. He shook himself from a moment of angry sadness, turning back to the issue at hand. His two companions were watching him intently. "Reasoning held no answers; there were simply not enough clues. And then I found this." The steward turned quickly to the desk and grabbed the book, closing the volume and holding it forth so that Aragorn could read the golden title.

The king blanched. "Oh, sweet Eru…"

"The gem is a piece of  _palantír_. I am certain of it."

Aragorn closed his eyes in the emptiness that followed this revelation. He rubbed his brow tiredly as he sank into a chair beside the bed. Gimli, however, was not so ready to accept this incredible fact as truth. "You are saying that – that this  _necklace_  has allowed Holis to see and hear everything that has happened since the child entered Minas Tirith?" The Dwarf's eyes blazed, and he shook his head. "I know little of such things, but I believed the seeing stones to be all but indestructible."

Faramir nodded at his conjecture. "You are correct, Gimli, and certainly such a fact puzzled me as well. The  _palantíri_ are rumoed to be unbreakable, and there were many tales speaking to their resilience to both time and the destructive efforts of men. But there is much to suggest that, though incredible, this theory must be true."

"Explain, Faramir, and leave nothing unsaid," ordered Aragorn. The king had recovered enough to support his request with a measure of calm. He turned a sweaty face to his steward, skewering the other man with a frustrated stare.

Faramir drew a deep breath. "Consider, Aragorn, all that we have seen! Holis claims to have mastered our own attitudes and ambitions. Yet how could he have done that? How could he have known us so completely as to use our own emotions and conceptions so skillfully against us? He struck at Legolas, knowing the Elf's pride would be his undoing. He taunted and tormented me with hints of his plan, knowing I would succumb to doubt. He struck at  _you_ , knowing you would falter in the face of what was done to one you love as your brother." Aragorn flinched. "He  _knew_ , Aragorn. He knew we did not understand the purpose of the attacks on Cair Andros and Linhir. He knew we were hesitant to accept his offers, and so he concocted this convincing story of an ambush at Emyn Nimsîr. He knew Legolas would join the campaign, and he knew  _where_ , in the chaos of that battle, to find the Elf. He knew that I chose the wrong vial instead of cramp bark!" The color drained from Aragorn's flushed face, and the man shared a riled glance with Gimli. Faramir felt his clammy hands shake slightly as he returned the book to the desk. "He was taunting, my friends, taunting us again because he could not pass up an opportunity to flaunt his superiority! Surely you remember what he said. Not once, but twice he dangled the truth before us, both when he came to examine Legolas and when he revealed to us the horror of his betrayal."

" _The solution was there before you, and yet you chose the wrong one."_

" _Then it certainly will kill him, and it will be too late for good fortune to smile upon you."_

Distant gray eyes slowly focused, and Aragorn's thin lips hardly moved as he whispered, "He saw you select the wrong vial." The king turned upon him hurt and angry eyes. "Even more, he heard Éowyn's comment in the moments after that!"

"Aye," agreed Faramir. "Such subtlety would normally not warrant investigation, but I have come to realize that few things have been so coincidental of late. He could not resist gloating in our ignorance." He shook his head slowly, thoughtfully considering the complexity of the matter. "Regardless of his arrogance, he could not have offhandedly made such comments unless he had somehow acquired specific knowledge of what transpired in that moment within the healer's quarters. We were the only ones present, and that necklace is the only oddity in the situation for which I cannot account. When I was searching for the cramp bark, I saw the gem on the table, Aragorn. I saw it among Legolas' things. It distracted me with a cunning whisper, seemingly begging me to afford it a lasting glance. When I looked, he saw me. It is his eyes that speak through the stone. And then he observed me, as flustered as I was, choose the wrong solution."

Gimli growled, and his hand slammed down loudly into a nightstand cluttered with flasks and cups. "Curse him!" spat the fiery Dwarf. "Curse him for his immorality! Has he no honor, no sense of propriety? To flaunt a cowardly advantage…"

Aragorn was surprisingly thoughtful, clasping the fuming, small creature on his shoulder before looking to Faramir. "Yet if this…  _trinket_  is a piece of  _palantír_ , he must possess another, larger piece of the stone in order to see through the proverbial window."

"Indeed," muttered Gimli disdainfully. "That vile demon. One of the stones remained in Barad-Dûr, correct? If memory serves, even after the Dark Tower fell it could not be recovered." He grunted, his ire tempered by the challenge of a complicated enigma. Even with his short temper and gruff exterior, Gimli was still a formidable thinker. "I doubt the scholars considered the unimaginable force of a falling structure of that size when they declared the stones indestructible. The sheer heat from the impact alone could splinter the toughest rock."

The possibility was undeniable. Faramir typically placed little faith in a theory he could not truly substantiate. He was not inclined to readily ignore the lack of confirmation of this notion, but there was simply no other option that made such striking sense. Knowing this brought little comfort, and the steward sighed. Aragorn spoke before he could move to the greater meaning of his discovery. "Why did Holis make such an effort to ensure this pendant reached Legolas? I cannot fathom, if it was Velathir who gave the trinket to the girl as you say, that Legolas eventually obtaining it was sheer coincidence."

"It could not have been," remarked Faramir, his eyes drifting sadly to the suffering Elf. "If we are to believe him, Legolas' fall and degradation were too important to his plan to take such a massive risk. He could not have been certain that the child would survive the attack. He could not have been certain that Legolas would find her, or that she would give him the necklace, unless he had manipulated her somehow."

Gimli's face grew tense as the color drained from it. "Surely you are not suggesting that she - "

Faramir raised his hand to the proposition and shook his head. He glanced at the Dwarf solemnly before returning his gaze to the bed. "I do not know, Gimli." His hand subconsciously clenched into a furious fist. "I have to believe that there is some decency that would preclude even the most heinous of demons from using the love of a child as a weapon, but given all that has happened, I… I just do not know. Questioning Velathir might yield answers yet."

The conversation died momentarily, each of them struggling to rationalize this ugly possibility with a lingering belief in morality. It was not long before Faramir spoke once more. "There is a significant hole in this logic, however. Certainly this pendant acts as a seeing stone. Without a doubt Holis plotted to ensure that Legolas eventually acquired it. But why would he place his proverbial 'eyes and ears' into our world into the hands of one he meant to capture? Legolas was gone from us for many days, and during that time, that pendant became useless as a means to spy. Why give it to Legolas when he meant to take Legolas away from us?"

Faramir shook his head and stepped closer to the bed. His heart was pulsing with the excitement of discovery, and his voice was thick with emotion. "No, it only makes sense if this pendant had some greater purpose, one that uniquely pertained to him. And there is only one answer to that riddle, one doom amidst all the destruction that Legolas alone faced."

For the second time, Aragorn's strong countenance whitened in shock and horror. "The  _thral-gûl_ ," he whispered hoarsely.

"Yes."

There was no quiet melancholy this time. Anger burned and scorched the peace. "Wait," gasped Gimli. "Are you saying that – that  _jewel_  is what did this to him?"

Faramir's thoughts were as rush as the words that spilled from his ashen lips. "Yes! Here, this book - " He again lifted the tome, frantically flipping through the pages to the passage he had before uncovered. "This section speaks of a peculiar capability of the stones that was once thought to exist. Specifically, a man of strong will can gaze into a  _palantír_  and inflict onto others his ambitions. Little is written of it, for this power was never substantiated, and given its implications, it was considered to be too dangerous to fully research and document." He offered the book to a dumb-founded Aragorn, who received it with surprise and skepticism in his eyes. Faramir frantically pointed towards the passage of interest, but Aragorn only glanced at it, too disconcerted to attempt to decipher the ancient and complicated language. "But I have to believe this is possible, Aragorn! It must be! How else could he have afflicted Legolas with that dream? How else could he have put a dark purpose upon creature blessed with unending light? He is putting his dark will upon Legolas through that stone. I know it!"

Aragorn looked lost. He shook his head numbly, his eyes glazed with anger and confusion. A quiet time passed during which both Faramir and Gimli watched the king expectantly, both unable to breathe for the tension in the room. Then the distant expression of alarm and hurt became narrowed and hard, and a baleful appearance of ire claimed Aragorn's face. "You are right," he said finally, his voice soft and hard with malevolence. "I see it now. You are right."

Gimli was not so appeased. "But that does not make sense, Faramir," countered the Dwarf. "You took the pendant from him! If that was the fell craft behind this torture, why then does he still languish?"

"That I cannot answer, Gimli," Faramir admitted. The man sighed heavily, shaking his head. "Perhaps the damage is done. Perhaps once the  _thral-gûl_  has been inflicted, it cannot be removed. I do not know." Frustrated anguish pinched his tone. "The dark aura clings to him still. As I said before, I believe the heinous mission Holis imprinted upon Legolas torments him even now. When his body grows more able, he becomes driven once more, pushed by Holis' commands." He said nothing further, his mind racing and his heart heavy.  _Pushed into becoming a murderer,_  Faramir thought darkly.  _And yet this troubles me. Something is not right._  Though this conclusion seemed sound, inexplicably he knew there was more to Legolas' madness than a will of another man. It tickled him, crawling just beneath the grasp of realization, and he felt like growling for his irritation. Despite his driving desire, he simply could not see it.

The three friends were silent. Much revelation had come this day, both foul and fair, and the weight of it pushed them down into a mire of doubtful contemplation. There were things yet to say, hopes to find and hurts to bear. In this long moment, however, the three simply breathed and wondered. Wondered at all that had happened to lead them to this juncture. Wondered at what they might do now to save their city, themselves, and their friend. A tentative question hung on the air. It was nearly drowned out, though, by the moans from the suffering Elf. Finally, Aragorn shifted, dropping the book to the blankets. He sat on the bed, his hands desperately reaching for Legolas, and those able fingers pulled the writhing form into his embrace. The prince struggled briefly, but in his weakened state he could not free himself from his friend's strong grip. Some semblance of familiar comfort must have breached the dark veil about Legolas' spirit, for he eventually relaxed and sank into Aragorn's arms. The king whispered softly to the prince in Elvish, desperate to provide some solace. Faramir could not hear the words, but he was touched by the display. For the first time it seemed Aragorn was caring for Legolas without the ghosts of guilt and despair marring his face. His expression was calm, and his eyes were bright and resolute with love and strength.

And surely Legolas sensed this. Faramir watched, feeling hope warm his heart, as the archer breathed easier. Again this was a sign, a hint that all was not lost. That Legolas could yet be drawn from the prison around him and saved. They knew the truth now, but that did not mean they needed to fear it for its ugliness.

But there was no time for this. No time to linger. Aragorn sighed softly. "If this is all true, what should we do with this pendant?" he asked. He looked to his steward. "Where is it?"

"I have hidden it," Faramir answered. "It is safe."

"Safe?" Gimli muttered disdainfully. The Dwarf's eyes narrowed darkly as he sat into one of the many chairs about the bed. He shook his head, his deep exhalation causing his beard to twitch. "The damage has already been done. That coward. He struck at us from the shadows, and now we can do naught save lament our ignorance. We ought to leave it buried where its evil cannot hurt Legolas any further."

A thought came to Faramir. The tension left his face as the tendril wound its way through his muddled mind, meandering randomly around spikes of hesitation and hope, fact and fiction, dread and determination. It parted the mist, sharp and clear in its perseverance, and reached the tip of his attention. From there it consumed until there was nothing left of any import save it. Faramir's glazed eyes grew wide, and his heart began to pound. "Nay," he said, turning his gaze to Aragorn. "We must use it."

Gimli shook his head, standing again as though prodded with a sword. "Are you mad, Faramir?"

But Faramir did not hear the scathing comment. The words came quickly from his lips, fueled by the excitement of discovery. "He does not know of it! How could he, after all? How could he?"

"Who? Holis?" Aragorn asked, watching his steward with apprehensive eyes.

" _Think_  of it, Aragorn!" Faramir was beside the king in a breath, his eyes glowing madly and his form tense. "Remember the path I walked to uncover this! It all hinged on  _that_." The man pointed to the book, which lay innocently open at the foot of the bed. Faramir went on, ignoring Aragorn's expression of utter exasperation. If he had not been so swept up in his abrupt revelation, he might have realized that his lord's annoyed bewilderment was entirely justified. After all, the normally calm, stoic, and wise steward was raving like a lunatic. "The book, my King. The book! Legolas found it."

"Legolas did?"

"Aye, Aragorn," Gimli added, his rage before set aside for the sake of his curiosity. He regarded Faramir with no small amount of misgiving, but greater still was the light of interest in his dark eyes. "When the lone soldier of Linhir lay dying, he spoke a warning to Legolas. He told him that the enemy saw all. The fool Elf believed the message to be meant for him, and he spent hours pondering it." Gimli's voice grew quieter, and he too adopted an expression of distant recollection and fledgling understanding. "He found the book. Before the meeting all those weeks ago, he had brought it to me. He was so sure that a  _palantír_  was somehow involved, but I was unwilling to accept it for it seemed so incredibly impossible. The council commenced, and I knew not what happened to the tome after that."

"Do you not see?" Faramir gasped. He turned wild eyes to the king. "Coincidence? Fate? Call it what you will. Holis is not so grand as to control the whims of destiny. Even if he had planned for that wounded boy to say that peculiar warning, he could never have been certain Legolas would be the one to hear it, or that he would interpret it as he did. He could not have anticipated that our friend would think to go down into the vaults and search for answers! He could not have possibly imagined that  _this particular book_  lay in wait in our massive libraries, and that Legolas would find it! He could not have predicted that I would learn of it as I have. Or that that passage would be inside."

Aragorn was beginning to understand. "He does not know we uncovered the truth," the king declared softly, his pale lips hardly moving about the words.

Faramir nodded enthusiastically. "Aye, perhaps not. And that makes it our only advantage against him."

It was there before them, strong and powerful. Those words echoed for their importance, ringing loudly in the hearts and minds of the warriors. Breaths came short. Blood was hot and stomachs twisted. Could it be? Could a weapon have finally come to them? Could the fog of fate at last be unveiling to them a path to freedom?

Faramir smiled grimly. He was no longer afraid. No more did doubt and despair assail his spirit with poisoned daggers and vindictive words. For the first time in weeks he was certain of something beyond any qualm or doubt. Gondor had been forever defensive in this war, for though her path had at times appeared straight and clear, she had been led forward by foolish faith and ignorance. Now she would strike back, and she would do so without reservation.

Yet there was cause to question this assertion. Blind conviction had betrayed them before, the cunning devil that she was, and they could not afford to be tricked or fooled by premature confidence. Aragorn knew this. He fixed Faramir with an appraising stare. "How can you be sure?" he asked.

Gimli was quick to add his reluctance. "If Holis has been watching us, certainly it is probable that he has seen what we have. He might know we have discovered the pendant for what it is!"

Aye, certainly that was a possibility. But something inside Faramir was adamant. "In all fairness, he might, Gimli. But I have to believe he does not! After Legolas was returned to us, that stone lost its purpose. Obviously it does not still afflict him, for removing it from his person has done naught to reverse the injury done to his spirit. I do not think Holis watches us still. He has grown cocky, secure in the victory he has made for himself. He has bragged and boasted his superiority. He has done the same before! Always he has left hints, knowing we would not see the truth, certain that we were blind to his intentions! Legolas' dream, his smooth words, his oblique threats… Now is no different!"

"The risk is great," Aragorn murmured, hesitation lacing his words.

"Yes, but it is all we have left. Anything of value comes with a price."

"We will act without certainty."

"Certainty is a luxury we cannot afford, my Lord."

"I… I do not know, Faramir."

Faramir clasped Aragorn on the shoulder, holding his king's gaze. "You  _do_  know this, Aragorn. You have heard him speak of his omnipotence, watched as he waved his conquests before us and laughed at our surprise. He spoke of challenges, my Lord, challenges and risks, but he does not believe in his own doctrines! He invited us to make this war a trial for him because he thought we were incapable of doing just that. He teased us with bits and pieces of the truth because he considered himself above our means to defeat. He is certain we would never know the machinations of his dreams. Well, he is wrong. And now… let us use his weapons  _against_  him."

Gimli's face broke into a confused frown. "Even a gambler must realize the fates will turn against him. Surely he will expect it."

"Nay, he is not so humble," responded Faramir. "I have seen him speak of his ambitions. I have seen the sick light come to his eyes as he slavers over the future he deems imminent. He is bold and potent. Certainly no less of a man could so confidently enact a plot as heinous, vulgar, and brilliant as this. He does not think himself a gambler, Gimli. He thinks himself a god, and that is his weakness. Let us prove him otherwise."

Silence. Aragorn's eyes fell to Legolas, watching the Elf wince against unseen demons. Then the king's lax face grew hard and angry. The visage was one of renewed fury, of determination and purpose. Steely gray eyes found Faramir's. "How?"

That ardent idea burst inside Faramir, filling him with exhilaration. He smiled grimly, aglow with anticipation and newfound hope. "I have a plan, my King," he declared quite matter-of-factly. His eyes narrowed. "Aye, that I do."


	31. The Dreadful Summit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** There's a small section in this chapter that references Boromir's ride to Rivendell. This is the book version, not the movie version (I kind of felt like they made Denethor evil for evil's sake in the film, so I stuck to the book's depiction of him a little more). Enjoy! I don't think our guys can catch a break…

" _That_  is your plan?"

Faramir winced at his king's words. They were spoken with such incredulity, with such disbelief and doubt, that he himself was forced to question his assertions. Aragorn was staring at him as though he had just suggested that they both dress their wives' gowns and prance about the streets of Minas Tirith, and for all the likelihood of success, he supposed the metaphor was not entirely unwarranted. Faramir watched the misgiving twist his friend's countenance, smashing the fledgling hope that had taken root in the king's gray eyes. Then Aragorn shook his head. "No," he said vehemently, the muscles of his face flexing tautly as his mind churned with the prospect. "No. That is foolhardy at best and disastrous at worst! Do you have any notion of what you are implying?"

Slightly insulted at his king's implication, Faramir lifted his chin and stood his ground. "Aye, my Lord. I did not suggest this with flippancy in mind."

"No."

Faramir's anger surged forth, breaking free of the restraints of decorum. He waved a hand at Aragorn, who had risen from Legolas' bed to face to the frosted window of the Elf's room. "Do not cast it aside for its seeming impossibility!" the steward chastised, caring not for the subordinate propriety that his station demanded of him. He needed to make Aragorn see this was the only way, and they did not have time to debate it. "We cannot ever make Holis willingly take back into his possession the pendant! To do so would reveal our knowledge of it."

"So we  _shoot_  him with it?"

And the steward grimaced again. The way Aragorn spoke the crux of his plan made it indeed seem utterly ludicrous. Though his heart faltered in a wave of shaking doubt, his mind remained steadfast. He sighed, wishing with all his might that they might simply forego this inevitable deliberation and agree. "I know of an excellent smith and fletcher. He could seal the shard into an arrowhead so flawlessly that none would ever suspect the point held anything aside from solid metal."

"Faramir, this is folly."

"Listen, Aragorn! Please!" Faramir made no effort to hide the desperation in his voice. Though it was quite unbecoming for the steward to beg attention from his king, if his frenzy aided in his quest to be heard and understood, he did not care about the smear upon his reputation. "We need only fashion the  _palantír_  into the arrow. If we wound him properly, he might never suspect that a plot is afoot."

Gimli shook his head. He had taken Aragorn's place at Legolas' bedside, his large, rough hands clasped about the Elf's slender, pale fingers. The archer was peaceful for the moment, his fits of twisting and moaning having abated. The Dwarf seemed dark but thoughtful. "If we are to go through such trouble as to maim him," he said, "why not simply kill him? It seems far easier a task, and there is no great uncertainty about the effectiveness of a corpse!"

"No," Faramir countered, looking to Gimli and striding quickly to the bed. The steward balled his hand into a fist. "He will have considered that possibility! He is too cautious not to have planned in the eventuality of his death! I fear killing him will not stop the Haradrim's assault upon our city."

Aragorn turned from the window. His stormy eyes flashed as though lightning was arcing from cloud to cloud. "So you propose to enact this ruse for his benefit. You suggest that we sneak out into their camp and, from some high vantage, of which there are markedly  _few_  in the Pelennor, need I remind you–"

"We must let them inside the city," Faramir interrupted. "There is no proper place for this in the fields."

Aragorn's short breath was exasperated, but he went on with his original statement, obviously intending to contend with this most recent absurd conjecture later. "Fine. From within Minas Tirith. The point is this, Faramir: you plan to shoot the emperor with this arrow and instill upon him a vision. But to what end? What is it you want me to show him?"

And thus the massive failing of his plan. "I do not know," he admitted, the strength automatically fleeing his voice.

"And how do you suppose I go about planting this vision into his mind?" The king waved his hands, clearly at a loss and struggling to understand this seemingly massive and incomprehensible scheme of his friend. "I have no knowledge of such a thing! Surely it requires training, or experience in the very least–"

"The book mentions naught but a strong will as a prerequisite," Faramir insisted quietly, feeling like a small boy desperate to defend his thoughts before a domineering father.

Aragorn was not appeased by this response. "I am certain it is not so simple." After that, the three of them were silent. Tension came between them, one wrought with too much doubt and encroaching despair. Faramir bowed his head and let his eyes close. He was so very tired. The desolate mire sucked him down again, and no matter how hard he tried, he could never free his legs from the devouring mud of misery and walk. He just wanted to be free, to sleep without nightmares and wake to a world that was peaceful again. Months had passed since he had known such bliss. He missed his home, modest though it was, and his lands. He missed having a glass of wine with Gimli and Legolas and talking well into the night of nothing and everything. He missed lying with his wife when night descended, lulled to a peaceful sleep by her soft breathing. He missed these things that he had taken for granted. He longed for the aching simplicity of that now fleeting dream. Peace. Prosperity. These things had taunted and tantalized him, whispering of a hopeful future, promising an era filled with naught but love and serenity. And he had been the glutton, devouring these aspirations as though the mere implication of possibility was enough to bring truth to taste and substance to nothing. They had only been dreams. All of it. Always dreams. And, though dreams could sate the heart for the moment, they could not fill an aching belly or a desperate spirit with anything but bitterness.

_Bitterness. Is that all that will be left?_

"Suppose you are right." Aragorn's soft, tentative words drew him from his reverie. Faramir focused his gaze upon his king. The storm in Aragorn's gray eyes had abated, and he breathed deeply. The two men were still a moment, and again came a connection between them. This was not the piety of a steward for a king or the loyalty of a warrior to his commander. This was the appreciation man held for his comrade, the sort of relief that one might feel when all sources of doubt are dismissed in favor of trust. "Suppose such a ploy is possible. To what end do we trick him?"

This was another question Faramir could not answer. Generally, the solution was obvious. Its details, however, were quite obscured. He sighed and shook his head. "Surely we must divert their attention from the Gateway. If Éomer and Imrahil return, they cannot besiege our own city."

"If they return," Gimli grunted angrily.

Faramir cast the irate Dwarf a harsh glare and went on with his thoughts. "Holis is no fool, Aragorn. But his arrogance will make him sloppy. If we can show to him something of greater value lies in the Citadel, he will come for it."

"How can you be so certain?" Aragorn questioned, his eyes flashing with desperation. He opened his arms helplessly, facing the steward with an anguished expression. "How?"

"Because I  _know_  him, Aragorn!" Faramir said firmly, stepping forward to stand before his king. "I have seen him act. I have heard him speak. He is a man of lust. He hides it with grand aspirations and clever words, but he is no better than the common thief, desiring what is not his and taking it when the moment suits him." Aragorn grunted and turned away, clearly unimpressed by the analogy. But Faramir was not so easily defeated. This felt  _right_  to him. There was no doubt in his mind that what he spoke was true. "You said it yourself, my Lord!" he gasped, grabbing Aragorn's arm and pulling the king back. Aragorn's cold eyes met his own. "You said it yourself. He is nothing more than a rapist." The other's countenance grew wrathful, and Faramir steeled himself to speak more of a topic he found utterly revolting. "He took Legolas because he desired it first and foremost, and whatever ends came of his capture of our friend were incidental to his greater goal: destroying the Elf."

"But you just said at length how all of this was planned, Master Ranger," Gimli remarked, shaking his head with confusion. His eyes betrayed how very deeply talk of this sort haunted him. "Surely this man did not orchestrate this entire war to – to… Confound it!" The stout warrior stammered, unable to speak the dreadful facts. "Sinful pleasure is not so great a lure."

"It was more than sinful pleasure, Gimli, although I am certain that was not unimportant." Faramir felt numb as he unraveled these horrid speculations for his comrades to understand. "And I am also certain that his plot did not begin with such an intent. But the fact of it is undeniable. He desired Legolas, and he did so fervently. We all saw him act upon the night he first arrived." The brush of Holis' fingers against the Elf's own. The open sadistic anticipation in those dark eyes. Another sign they had missed. Another hint they had not known how to interpret. Faramir sighed. "I do not know what misery came to Legolas that night, but what I imagine makes my heart ache and my stomach twist. There was no cause for such a thing. There was no cause for any of that! Holis… He took Legolas because he wanted to dominate. That is the only explanation. The pleasure he derived from tormenting and torturing him drove him. You heard him speak of it, Aragorn. When you labeled him a mere rapist, he grew angry in a way I had not seen before. He crushed Legolas' will. He transformed our loving friend into a hateful murderer.  _That_  is what he came to value. No matter how we challenged his ambitions regarding Gondor, only when you defamed his treatment of Legolas did he anger!"

Aragorn's eyes had become glazed with distressing thoughts. He winced, the motion twisting his stoic face. "Why risk it?" he murmured, shaking his head slightly. "Again, why risk it? Though he claimed to be ignorant of Elves, he obviously is not. He must know what it means to violate one. What such an assault would cause…" The king did not finish, his fractured face growing slack with unwanted grief. Something inside Faramir started to throb madly, and he darted his gaze to Legolas. The Elf slept, though not soundly, his hands folded into Gimli's and his skin glowing with that same odd fever. He had not considered the implications. A haunting memory of that day at Emyn Nimsîr claimed his senses for a moment, the horrid picture of Legolas' gaunt face and flashing eyes tormenting him. When the prince had recoiled from Faramir's compassionate touch, the steward knew truly that something beyond a simple wound or a sleepless night had deeply harmed his friend. He knew the horrifying facts well enough: a violated Elf died. He did not claim to understand the workings of the Eldar; though he had spent much time in Legolas' company, even his dear friend seemed to elude his comprehension at times. Presumably such a wound went deeply into their spirits, a mortal blow to an immortal heart. The body might heal, but the soul never would. When an Elf's will was broken, it could not be recovered, and everything faded, even a wish to survive. Faramir closed his eyes and swallowed the tightness in his throat. Guilt and fear rose up within him, neglected once in these moments of understanding, vindictive now in their pummeling of his resolve. He heard again Gimli's words, spoken in a moment of weakness.  _"Would he want to live knowing what has been done to him?"_

What Aragorn had ventured was true. Holis had apparently taken another inordinate chance in forcing himself, body and soul, upon Legolas. From his description of the  _thral-gûl_ , the magic seemed more a prison than an obliterating will, and Legolas' continued fluctuation in between restoration and remission seemed to further support that the Elf struggled still. His spirit fought, though perhaps the effort was futile, and thus it made little sense to assume Holis meant to kill Legolas' soul. Like the beating, this intimate attack had been a dangerous one. Holis had risked destroying the very thing he had purportedly labored to create. Why had he done such a thing if not for personal gratification?

There was no other reason. The man was a monster, a demon of the worst sort. A mere criminal was too dull-witted to mask his animalistic lusts with such clever plots. When all the cool words and crafty lies fell away, Holis wanted one thing: power. Power over Legolas. Power over Gondor. The question truly was this: given the chance, which would he choose to maintain?

Lust was a powerful weapon indeed. It was also a damning weakness.

"I do not understand what you are proposing, Faramir," Gimli finally said, ending a terrible moment of tense silence. The Dwarf's ruddy face was taut with a grimace. "You mean to use Legolas as some sort of lure?"

Faramir's eyes widened at the prospect. Truthfully, he had not considered such a thing, but as the words struck his ears, slowly something began to coalesce within him. He looked to Aragorn, his mouth coming open slightly. Then his lips curled into a tentative grin. "Perhaps," he began, "that is exactly what we need do."

Aragorn's face fractured. "Surely you are not serious."

"And why not?" Faramir countered. "He has proven before he desires Legolas. Let us use that against him! If we can lure him to Citadel with some…  _hint_  that Legolas recovers from what he has done, he will come. He will not tolerate such a defeat, I can assure you!"

"No," Aragorn said sharply, skewering Faramir with an angry, hurt scowl. Shock glowed fiercely in his eyes. "I will not use Legolas like that! I will not make light of his suffering by reducing it to – to  _bait!_ "

"Even if it would save your city?" Faramir responded, feeling his own anger spike his words with rancor. "Even if it would save your people, your friends, your wife?" Aragorn's eyes softened with those harsh words. Faramir jabbed at finger at the limp figure in the bed. "He will not know, Aragorn! And do you think he would fault us if it would liberate our kingdom and defeat our enemies?" Perhaps the words should have hurt him for their callous assumptions. After all, Legolas had endured much for the sake of Gondor, and using that did seem terribly cruel and conceited. But Faramir was simply too engrossed with the prospect of finally striking back to allow such thoughts to trouble him. "Holis will come for Legolas, Aragorn. He is a snake that enjoys nothing so much as tormenting his prey."

Still Aragorn did not seem convinced. "If they come to the Citadel, we will not be able to hold them."

"No more than we will be able to maintain the defense of the Gateway," said Faramir. "At least here we will have less ground to protect."

"And in doing so we will endanger the lives of those we seek to protect!" Aragorn snapped. "This is our stronghold! We cannot lose it!"

"And do you think the fighting will never come here?" questioned Faramir. Aragorn's hard scowl faded slightly, and he looked away as though ashamed by his naïve assertions. "Holis will come here, my King, and whether it is upon his terms or ours will be the difference."

Gimli sighed and stood. "The lad is right, Aragorn," he declared, staring at his dear friend with firm but compassionate eyes. "The battle will spread into the city. This will naturally become our final fortification."

The king sighed. "It is not that I do not realize such a thing," he admitted tiredly, looking to his friends with imploring eyes. "I simply do not desire to jeopardize our loved ones. I cannot guarantee how long we will be able to withstand an assault, or even if such a defense is possible."

"And I sympathize completely, my friend," Gimli said, his voice calm. His eyes shone with understanding and a growing spark of excitement. "But I must agree with Faramir. If we can draw the Haradrim from the Gateway, we may make use of it yet."

Faramir turned to the stout warrior, his interest immediately piqued. Through the haze of too much thought and emotion emerged the wisp of a memory. Before he had discovered any of this, Gimli had summoned him here to discuss something important. In fact, just prior to Legolas' attack, he had seemed ready to tell the ranger vital news. He opened his mouth to question his comrade, but Aragorn was faster. "What do you mean, Gimli?"

"I meant to tell you this earlier, but I did not wish to bolster false hopes, and then this whole matter with the  _palantír_ …" The Dwarf sighed, huffing enough to make the fine, rusty hairs of his beard shimmy. "During the surveys we conducted on the gates, we uncovered a matter of some advantage. Towards the end of the Silent Street, there is a small entrance into Minas Tirith's underground sewers. We checked it carefully as a point of infiltration." Faramir nodded. The doors to Rath Dínen were kept constantly locked to prevent unwanted trespassing. Only a scant few possessed a key to the impenetrable Steward's Door, beyond which the Silent Street descended slightly into the Houses of the Dead. It was likely that Aragorn had ordered Hurin, the warden of all the keys in Minas Tirith, to open the area for the Dwarves to inspect. Simply because the people of the White City honored the solemnity of such a place did not mean the Haradrim would abide by such a thing, and the area might have somehow been compromised by a hidden entrance or a faulty section of the gate. "The drainage point itself is secured, but a little ways further into the duct revealed something we did not expect."

"What?" Aragorn asked, impatient and exasperated.

Gimli's eyes sparkled. "There is a path that leads outward. It is small, too small for a man to navigate, but a Dwarf could easily crouch and move inside it fully armed. We charted its course. It leads to the outer shell of the city, to the marketplace."

Excitement sped Faramir's pulse. This was excellent! What good fortune! He had never heard of such a thing before, but it was by all means possible. The Citadel itself was filled with little hidden passages and secret nooks. He had lived within the massive complex all his life, and even to this day he discovered a new place within it every so often. He remembered asking Boromir about their home's myriad mysterious paths and doors when they had been boys, and his older brother had engaged his young mind with tales of ghosts and phantoms slipping about the city under cover of darkness, resting in these long, hidden channels during the day to avoid the blasting power of the light. And Faramir, having been quite the thinker for even a boy, had countered his brother's depiction.

" _Not so, Boromir! I've never seen a ghost!"_

" _They hide in the passages. They can run all around the Citadel without ever showing themselves. Don't you know anything about ghosts?"_

" _No such thing."_

" _Well, then, do not come to me crying when you find one under your bed!"_

Foolish things, really, but those passages did serve such a purpose: to conceal and permit escape. They had been designed to allow the royal family and important dignitaries to flee the Citadel during attack should the need arise to do so. The White City had, after all, been designed to withstand a siege. With the great fields of the Pelennor stretching all about it, there would be no easy escape, and thus maintaining the integrity of the city's defenses was imperative. Those silly passages, dark and dusty with neglect, had been built and bolstered by the hope they would never be used. Faramir imagined this sewer route Gimli had discovered had been constructed with the same ambition. Such a belief had served the city well. Minas Tirith had never been successfully captured.

Hopefully their luck would yet sustain them.

"You see what we must do," said Faramir then, his voice tight with exhilaration. He turned eyes bright and hopeful upon Aragorn. "We fashion this bit of  _palantír_  into an arrow and wound Holis with it. To him we send a vision of some sort, something that will entice him to come to the Citadel. Once he falls for our ruse and concentrates his attack here, we can send forth a force in this secret passage to the first gate. There they can open the Gateway."

"And allow Éomer and his men entrance," Aragorn finished in a soft voice.

"Yes."

The three of them were silent for some time then. Faramir's body tingled with a queer mixture of anxiety and fear. The plan he had just spontaneously concocted bounced his head as lightning might jump between violent storm clouds.  _This is your strategy?_  the insensitive voice of doubt within him quipped harshly.  _It is a fool's plot! It will fail!_  And surely such a misgiving was not unwarranted. This idea seemed overly complicated and based upon too many assumptions, not the least of which being that there was no way to be certain Éomer and the army were returning to the White City at all, let alone in time to render them aid. And there were other doubts as well. They paraded before him, bearing standards of red and gold, laughing at him, mocking him. Wounding Holis with the arrow seemed the only way to force the man to come in contact with that vile gem. But would such a thing work? And how  _did_  one actually go about projecting a vision onto another? Aragorn was utterly right, as much as he might like to deny it; that book said nothing about this strange procedure itself, proclaiming only that it was possible. The last demon in the procession was the worst, though. It was a sneering beast of shadow, a glistening snake leaving a trail of blood. How could he be certain Holis would  _believe_  what he saw? This was imperative, and the success of this entire plot depended upon it. From all his past dealings with the emperor, Faramir had become fairly attuned to the convoluted mess of facades and idiosyncrasies that comprised their enemy. The man was certainly complex, and he yielded little in terms of his true intentions. But there were hints. And though the thought of using Legolas as a means to pull their prey into their own ruse turned his stomach, he was willing to do it if it would put an end to this.

If it would defeat Holis. They would not be prisoners any longer.

_I am captain of my soul. I can change this world as well._

Then Aragorn sighed. The small breath was a loud whoosh of air in the silence, drawing Faramir's attention immediately. "We have no choice," declared the king. Frustration laced his words, tightening his tone. "We must act. If this is the only alternative, we will take it."

Faramir's heart abruptly began to pound. Gimli smiled widely. "Yes," he said lowly. Then the crackle of excitement in the air became too much for him, and he raised a fist. "Yes! We can do this. I am certain of it!"

Aragorn was not as enthused, but even he seemed relieved by the prospect of finally taking action. Too long had they been the victims, the puppets, the unwitting players in their own demise. They would not stand for it any longer. "Come," he said then, turning and passing the bed quickly. "We have much to do."

* * *

The day escaped far too quickly. The hours slipped away like scampering children, retreating out of the reach of desperate fingers and worried minds when eyes were averted. The sun dipped down, spilling golden light over the city. The rays were bright and yellow, setting the Tower of Ecthelion ablaze. The air had grown cold and stiff. Winter was soon in coming, a few flakes of snow floated from lavender clouds eagerly seeking to assume the sun's place. Minas Tirith was typically blessed with a milder cold season, but every so often routine would step aside and permit the appearance of a truly icy period. This particular winter seemed to promise an unusual chill, for the evening was already crisp and taut with a frigid bite. The unpleasant weather had deterred most of the city's denizens from venturing outside this night. A warm house was far more appealing than the cold, frightening streets, and such a mindset had left the White City eerily quiet.

It was not peaceful, however. The battle at the Gateway raged, undisturbed by the drop in temperature or the fading of daylight. War thought nothing of the comfort of its participants. The battle would hardly halt for a respite, no matter the wish of the cold, fatigued, and hungry soldiers atop the parapet. The night was without reprieve or solace. Perhaps the effort was a futile one now, for though the men still remained at their posts, there was nothing they could truly do. The ammunition stores had long been depleted. Hot wax and rocks did little to stay the Haradrim's advances against the wall. The darkened masses of the oliphaunts lumbered closely, the archers atop the hulking beasts launching ugly, black arrows at the last of the men guarding the Gateway. They had managed to fell a few of the beasts, but even one was a mighty threat to the stability of the wall. Like a field of glittering beetles, the dark army stretched over the trampled grasses of the Pelennor. Thousands. The sun was setting, and with its descent the defense would fall.

As the war imprisoned the soldiers outside in the cold twilight, inside the Citadel pandemonium coveted its captives just as greedily. Few of the servants knew the true purpose behind these rushed provisions, but none had the gall to question the orders of their fiery king. Supplies were taken up from stores both inside and outside the Citadel, the barrels of grains and crates of fruit and preserved meats hauled by the stronger individuals into the kitchens. The cooks were instructed to use these goods sparingly, as they could not afford to have their stores prematurely depleted. All entrances into the Citadel were reinforced, heavy doors slammed shut and barred with massive beams of strong wood. Guards were to remain at every conceivable point of admittance at all times. Weapons were pulled from storage, dusted and mended if necessary, and distributed to any able to wield them. Furnaces and hearths were stocked with fresh wood. The dwindling supplies of herbs, salves, and bandages were augmented in the healers' quarters, maids running back and forth from the Houses of Healing with satchels full of equipment. The wounded were transported to spare rooms to allow for further injured persons to receive treatment. Unused areas were locked, and unneeded people were sent home. Though it was never spoken, it was clear to each man, woman, and child that a final battle was coming to them. The safest reaches of their city would be now be ravaged by war. The attack was quickly approaching them, and it would prove terrible.

In the streets, the Citadel Guard spread the mandates of the king. Citizens were requested to stay inside their homes and not to engage the enemy unless they posed a danger that was both clear and present. To allow the people to participate in a disordered attack would only produce mass casualties, and that eventuality was to be avoided at all costs. If assumptions proved true, the Haradrim would sweep inside Minas Tirith once the Gateway collapsed, hopefully ignoring the innocents and focusing their attention upon the Citadel. Whether or not the people had faith in their king was rather moot; they had no choice but to believe. One man standing against an army would do nothing besides earn himself a quick death. Only in mass could the populace hope to strike a blow upon the invaders, and such a feat required coordination that the king's request made impossible.

It was for the best, really.

Faramir and Aragorn steadily walked through the courtyard. All around them people rushed, frantically busy with this task or that. Panic hung over the Citadel like a choking shroud. Most of those present were intelligent and observant enough to realize something greater than the battle at the Gateway had spawned this sudden rush to prepare. They knew they were in immediate danger. Though the threat was without substance or validation, it was enough to speed feet, hands, and hearts in these frenzied jobs. Guards nodded to their two lords and stepped aside, allowing the men to enter the Citadel. It was no less loud or chaotic. The two made their way quickly through the grand foyer. The beams of sunset made flecks of dust sparkle in the air like gold. The grand banners of the king hung, adorning the walls beautifully and proudly. The fine, sable fabric was tinted yellow in the dying light, and the silver tree shone vibrantly. Perhaps it still might when this war was a memory, after the misery and terror had passed and peace had returned. Perhaps…

"I should be the one, Faramir." The steward turned. In his reverie, they had walked to the other end of the chamber. Here the ceilings were high, vaulted and ornately inlaid with gold and silver. Though Aragorn spoke in a hushed tone, his voice carried, and the amplification added power to his grave words. "I should go."

Faramir sighed softly. Clenched in one of the king's hands was the arrow. It was wrapped in a dirty blue cloth, the length of the shaft completely concealed by the covering. The tip was a pointed, sharp outline beneath the fabric. Only the very ends of the brown feathers appeared at the opposite. The weapon had been expertly crafted. The man Faramir had approached with the task was quite experienced. The elderly artisan had been a favorite of Denethor for his talent with swords, and his sons had naturally come to appreciate that same, unchanging mastery. He had forged both Boromir's blade and Faramir's own, as well as an assortment of other daggers and knives the sons of Denethor had prized over the years. Still, this skilled smith had regarded Faramir's request with no small amount of confusion. Faramir had not told the man the nature of the gem he wished implanted into an arrowhead, saying only it would not melt in the hottest fire. The smith had known Faramir long and well enough to simply trust in the young man's need, nodding at the ranger's instructions. A few hours later, the arrowhead had been fashioned. It was flawless, without weakness or hint of what it carried. Faramir had constructed the remainder of the arrow himself, years of skill and talent guiding his hands as he wrought the shaft and fletching and attached them soundly to each other. He was proud of the finished product, happy to find Aragorn similarly pleased as the king had inspected it a few moments prior. It would suit their needs well.

The steward opened his mouth to answer, but Aragorn continued with his argument. "This war is my doing," he declared quietly. His tone was without the scathing self-loathing of before, but the words remained troublesome. "And thus this is a risk that I should take."

The argument was clear, and it had been made many times in the past. By them. By others in their places: kings and princes, lords and stewards, commanders and captains. It was so terribly similar to the tense conversation that had occurred between brothers some years ago. The rigid lines of duty and honor blurred when loving bonds tethered a man to one side or the other. Boromir had been the eldest son, and though he had tried vehemently in his life to never use his stature against Faramir, that night he had. They had not agreed upon who should take upon them the quest to Rivendell to elucidate the nature behind their vexing dreams, but the argument had ended when Boromir had wrested the responsibility from Faramir through sheer rank. Moving the matter into the realm of decorum had effectively silenced the younger brother's objections, and Boromir had won the task. And he had died because of it.

All things considered, their father had been right. A second son was more expendable.

And to say such a thing had not troubled Faramir relentlessly since that fateful day would be nothing more than an optimistic lie. He regretted allowing Boromir to win that dispute. He regretted letting his brother leave him. The weight of subordination was at times worse than that of leadership.

Aye, the argument was as obvious and obligatory as ever. To stand aside and allow a dear friend, a brother, to take upon himself a venture that could end his life was a heinous prospect. But this time Faramir would not stand down. He would not tolerate Aragorn's insistences that this nightmare was of the king's own making, nor would he value his life over the life of his companion. He would not be idle now. "You are king, Aragorn. We cannot afford to lose you."

"When they come," Aragorn hissed, anger crawling into his terse words, "I will be no safer here!" A passing maid overheard the heated words, and her eyes widened as she scurried past them. Flushing slightly, Aragorn leaned closer to Faramir and lowered his voice. "I will not be protected here. There is no point in it. I do not want to remain here, doing nothing but worrying as the fate of my nation is decided. I  _am_  king. Let me defend my people!"

"We must  _not_  lose you," Faramir repeated slowly, annunciating each word evenly as though that might force the thought into the other's stubborn head. "You are needed here. You will need to command this defense."

"You could do that just as well," Aragorn countered. He was angry, livid in fact for his eyes blazed as he glared at his steward. Yet Faramir somehow knew his lord was not enraged at his coveting of executing their plan. On some level, Aragorn was well aware that what he was now suggesting was impossible. He realized that the restraints placed upon him by his blood permitted him no freedom to act as he otherwise might. He was not the sort to let others correct his wrongs or fight his battles for him. But Aragorn needed to realize a further point: this battle was not his alone.

_Nor is it yours. Yet you have taken it._

And Aragorn was no dullard. He was gifted with a keen intellect, one nurtured by Elvish teaching and much experience. Though Faramir steeled his face, the king's piercing gaze dissolved the wall he had erected about his emotions. "This is not about duty," Aragorn said lowly. "You and I both know that. This has become a path to retribution, but more than that, a chance at redemption."

Faramir did not know how to answer, and so for a long moment he did not. It was an unusual thing for a man of his wit to be bereft of words, and he found that disturbing occurrence to have grown absolutely too common in these last months. Finally, he lifted his chin, selfish and hurt enough to defend himself. "Perhaps it has in some sense. But you desire it for reasons no better." The two men were still for a vacuous instance before Faramir looked down, his shame getting the best of him. "I am not so confined by responsibility as you are."

"We cannot lose you either, Faramir," Aragorn said. His voice had grown softer, but his eyes were no less desperate. "I told you all those days ago, after Legolas… I cannot afford to have you both taken from me. I cannot–"

"You are king, Aragorn." The words had been spoken before, and with each utterance, they grew more potent. "You will because you must."

After that, they spoke no more of the matter. There was tension yet between them, the sort that words could not assuage. In silence they walked, feet directing bodies where minds could not. The problem was not suddenly solved despite their frantic wishes that it might leave them in peace. Such a difficult shot required an expert archer. Legolas would have been the ideal candidate for the job. In the place of the able, eternal fingers of an Elf, the sloppy, shaking fingers of a man would barely make do. The task truly fell to Aragorn and Faramir, certainly the most capable archers the human race boasted. And yet, as steady as they were in battle, as puissant they might be as leaders, neither could muster courage enough to face the demon crawling about the silence. A greedy search for vindication from appalling crimes was hardly a worthy cause, but with every step, that became the object of this complex plot. Quivering spirits rationalized the transition as natural; after all, men were prone to acts of self-preservation when battered and brutalized. But men were as well supposed to be creatures of morality and compassion. Vengeance had destroyed them once. They had succumbed to bloody whims, and they had been bloodied themselves. The search for redemption seemed to invariably lead to retribution. How else could one amend mistakes when the past was so frustratingly immutable?

They were deep inside the grand, winding halls of the Citadel before Aragorn spoke again. They drew to a stop where the passage forked. The left corridor led to the living quarters of the nobles. The right began a steady ascent to the grander dining areas and offices above. "Where will you go now?" he asked. Though he seemed steady, Faramir was too observant to believe his composure to be anything more than a façade.

"To see my wife," he responded, releasing a slow breath.

"She will attempt to convince you that this is folly."

Faramir smiled weakly, somehow amused by the prospect.  _You fight to the last, my Lord…_  "Nay," he said quietly, "she will not."

Aragorn sighed softly, his cheeks reddening a bit as though he had just realized what he had implied. Éowyn was as bold, brave, and cunning as her husband. She would see the opportunity this plan supplied, and she would agree with Faramir's role in it despite the hazards. She was fiercely loyal, and she knew the demands of duty better than any. She would not plead with him, nor beg that he not endanger himself. "Go to her," Aragorn implored. "And then come to me. I shall seek Gimli and inquire as to his status. We must move quickly for this to work."

"Of course." And with that, the king turned and walked away. Faramir watched until he could no longer parse the black of Aragorn's tunic from the mesh of the shadowy people in the darkened halls. The steward stood still a moment, lingering in the awkward fog that had remained in the wake of their conversation. Then he shook himself free and began to walk once more. He did not think as he did, too exhausted to deal with the mess of his emotions. He simply wished to act, no matter the purpose behind it. He was weary of everything else.

The door to Legolas' room was ajar when he reached it. He barely remembered the journey that had carried him there. Faramir released a slow breath, rolling his shoulders slightly. His muscles ached with the abuse of the last torturous days, but he ignored the pang of their protest. He loosened his limbs and concentrated on his breathing a moment. He was nervous again. It was silly, stupid even. Yet he loved Éowyn more than his own life, and if harm came to him, it would hurt her terribly. He wished with all his heart to prevent that, and though he knew she would understand, he did not want to put such a pain upon her.

He drew a deep breath and stepped inside the room.

The queen immediately noticed his entrance. She sat at the head of the bed, Legolas' limp torso braced against her chest. One elegant hand was steadying the archer's head against her shoulder, the other frozen momentarily as it brought a spoonful of weakly steaming broth to the Legolas' slightly parted lips. She smiled, her pink lips curling, and though there was light in her eyes, she seemed haggard. He had never seen her appear so tired, so defeated. Her great mass of dark hair seemed dull, lacking its usual enchanting luster as it fell about her shoulders, and her pallor struck him. About her eyes was a redness that betrayed the falling of numerous tears. But Arwen was always a queen, serene in every action, regal in every word. "Good evening, Faramir," she said softly.

"My Queen," he responded, venturing further into the room. He hesitated. Something felt…  _strange_  to him. The air was heavy, ominous even, but he could not discern the cause of the sensation. It felt hot and almost toxic, and his throat was tight as he breathed. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Momentarily he considered bolting from the room, so distressing was the experience. But he did not. Certainly it was some game of a weary mind!

"You seem troubled," Arwen announced, drawing his attention. Faramir startled from analyzing the foreboding within him, shaking his head slightly. His cheeks burned in embarrassment. "Are you well?"

"Yes, my Lady. I am just… strained by all that has happened," he responded quickly. The vexing wail of his senses quieted then, slipping into the background of his thoughts. He ignored it.

Arwen did not seem convinced, but she nodded. She returned her attention to Legolas, carefully resuming feeding him. Tipping his chin up slightly, she tenderly raised the broth-laden spoon to the Elf prince's slack lips and poured the liquid into his mouth. Her hands were experienced and steady, and not a drip escaped during the entire action. Long, delicate fingers massaged Legolas' throat slightly, stimulating the now comatose Elf to swallow. Then she again dipped the spoon into the steaming bowl of soup upon the nightstand, acquiring another portion and beginning the entire tedious process again.

Faramir watched a moment more before thinking to question the queen as to his wife's location. However, before he asked, Éowyn emerged from the bathing chamber. In her hands was a basket of newly washed herbs and a knife. At seeing him, she paused and her face visibly fractured in surprised joy. Her eyes clouded with grateful tears. Though his body ached immensely to simply take her in his arms and hold her against him tightly, he did not, standing still and smiling feebly. His heart ached anew at the prospect of what he meant to tell her.

The room was still a moment, fettered to the quiet by an awkward yearning. Then Éowyn began to walk again, her skirts swishing as she quickly made her way to the bed. "I can be with you in a moment," she said, nearly breathless with excitement. "I need only trim a few of these…" Her skilled fingers took the knife, and she quickly began to cut the ends from the some of the greens.

Arwen, as perceptive as she was, understood the thinly veiled longing between husband and wife. She set down the spoon and gently settled Legolas back into bed. "It can wait, Éowyn. I must check on the other wounded men first, at any rate. Excuse me, please." She offered Faramir a friendly smile before stepping outside the room.

They were still a moment more. Éowyn seemed to nearly fidget, slicing the ends from the herbs and pulling older leaves from the stalks with quivering fingers. Her slight form was tense, and she did not look at him. When the silence became unbearable, she spoke, which was just as well, for Faramir had lost the courage to tell her what he wished. "Something is happening," she declared. Her tone was firm, though tinged by apprehension. "Something comes to us. I know it."

"The Gateway flounders," he responded softly.

"And we will do nothing?" answered his wife. She set the knife into the basket, its blade gleaming in the yellow light streaming through the windows. Her task was ignored for a moment as she turned, facing her love with desperate eyes. "Will this be the end?"

And then Faramir could stand their separation no longer. In two long strides he was beside her, his legs engulfing the distance in a second. He swept her into his arms and held her tight. Tears stung his eyes, but he held them back, refusing to cry. He would not be so weak when she needed him! "No," he swore. This was the decision he had made. He would be the one to wound Holis with their weapon. He would be the one to strike at them! "No! I will fight them! They will never touch us."

Éowyn nuzzled her face into his shoulder. Faramir squeezed her tightly to him, intoxicated by her nearness, his heart thudding a shaky, fearful beat. He did not want to entertain the thought that he might not return, that this would be the last time he would see her. He did not even wish to consider the prospect of never feeling her body against his, the silky strands of her hair flowing through his fingers, the beating of her heart next to his own. He breathed deeply, memorizing her scent as he never had before, cherishing her power. He did not want to lose her. He did not want to lose himself.

When she finally leaned back, tears had freed themselves from the tightly closed lids of his eyes. Alarmed by the sight, she shook her head, her fingers coming to brush them away from his bearded, bruised face. "What?" she whispered. "What bothers you?"

He released a shaking sigh. His conscience demanded he compose himself, and he did for her sake. "I love you," he declared, his voice surprisingly firm to his ears. "I – I do this for you." It was all he could think to say. The truth of his plan was too terrible. Somehow, though, this rationale made it less a beast for a moment.  _Above all else, I will do this for you!_

Her face twisted into an expression of mixed confusion and happiness. It was clear she did not understand, and she opened her mouth to question him further. It was warranted, as he had explained nothing of his strange behavior, and there was much he knew he still needed to say. But fate would not be tame, as the words never left Éowyn's mouth. A cry came from down the hallway. "Lady Éowyn! Lady Éowyn!"

The lord and his lady parted as a breathless maid appeared at the door. Her apron was covered in dried and fresh blood. "They are bringing new wounded here from the Gateway! We need you, my Lady! Please!" The young girl watched Éowyn with panicked eyes, her form shaking in panting fear.

Éowyn seemed torn a moment, glancing at her husband and the girl with frantic eyes. Then she licked her lips and stepped quickly to the door. "I shall return!" she called. A second later, she was gone.

Alone and flustered, Faramir was still. He stood a moment, unable to move as though his feet were rooted to the stones beneath them. Whispering still were those sinister voices, and in the silence that descended, he could hear them acutely. Anger burst through him. He desperately needed to speak with his wife. Once Gimli and his warriors began to traverse the hidden passageway in the sewers, their plan was irrecoverably in motion. The Gateway would falter any moment. The Haradrim might halt their attack for the evening.  _Perhaps that will benefit us, at least,_  he mused darkly. Regardless, once they were inside the city, only the sparsely manned guard companies at the interior gates would halt their advance towards the Citadel. They needed to wound Holis quickly, before they lost their opportunity. The sooner the emperor was distracted from the Gateway, the better chance they had at opening the portal. If the fighting spread to the inner gates prematurely, they would not be able to muster enough men to properly reinforce the Citadel.

These moments that slipped away now tortured him. They did not have time to spare. Although he knew Éowyn could potentially be long in reappearing, he could not bring himself to move. His spirit shuddered with the thought of betraying her. He would not dishonor her by slipping away and partaking in this dangerous mission without a proper explanation. He should have simply told her instead of stammering so! He cursed himself for his faltering resolution.  _I am strong enough to slip into the shadows, brave capture or death, and wound our hated enemy when he approaches among his army, yet I cannot admit that I do it to see him suffer._  That was the truth of it. Though he vehemently wished to deny, he had volunteered himself for this mission because  _he_  wanted to be the one who struck the demon down.

Faramir grunted hotly and narrowed his eyes. He stepped to the window then, his body taut with fury and grief. Looking out directed his attention from the menacing, black thoughts swirling about his head. The sun was nearly set, and Pelennor Fields was ablaze in yellow fire. The window was frosted slightly, and the puffs of his breath formed little clouds upon the clear glass. The scene before him was distressing. From this vantage, he could see the entire army. The window did not distort the truth, no matter how vehemently he wished the sight was an illusion. So many men. So many monsters intent upon seeing Gondor fall. Would this silly plan of his really do anything aside from complicate the inevitable?

He thought of something Gandalf had once told him then. The words emerged from the maelstrom of misery within him. When he had been young and eager to learn of anything that briefly caught his fancy, he had asked the great wizard how it was certain things had happened as they had. He had wondered how life would be if the world had been plotted differently. If Númenor had never fallen. If Sauron had never tricked the Elves and forged his rings. If all the legends and lore about which he spent many hours studying and pondering had not been as accidental as they seemed. And the ancient Istar had only smiled at his naïve question. Faramir had been quite put off by this gesture; surely one as wise and old as Gandalf knew why things came to pass! But there were always limits, bounds to power and ends to understanding.  _"And you need accept these things, Faramir. True strength stems from knowing what to simply let go. Life is a wide, empty painting. Even the artist does not know how each drop of paint will strike his canvas, and what he perhaps intended may not in the end appear. Do not assume things happened for a reason. Only when you stand at the end can you look back and understand the path you have walked. Perhaps a man can see his own road. Perhaps an Elf can see his. But no individual is so well endowed as to look back on the vast expanse of existence. So, you see, no one can see all ends."_

Gandalf's words were truer than he had ever imagined.

For then his path twisted again. Perhaps had he not been so engrossed in thought, he might have noticed the shifting of cloth behind him. He might have been aware of the soft breathing that was growing louder and more desperate with each passing moment. Maybe the quiet thud of bare feet striking the ground would have alerted him to the danger coming to him. As it was, only when those murmuring voices in the back of him mind screamed their warning did he snap from his reverie. And by then it was too late.

A blinding pain ripped through his torso. Faramir howled, his back arching, as he felt something cold and sharp stab deeply into his chest. The agony was paralyzing, for a moment he could do nothing but  _feel_  it as it ravaged every nerve in his body. Searing and fiery, it consumed his senses. He did not hear or breathe or think. The foreign object embedded deeply into his flank twisted cruelly, severing flesh and scraping bone. Red, heat spilled from the area, washing down his skin. The moment stretched into an infinite time of torment.

Then the vicious thing came free of him. Faramir remained stiffly still a moment, his mind reeling, his world a blur of yellow and red and black. He could not understand what had happened. His fingers fell slowly to his side, and when they came away, they were red with blood. His eyes widened, his body bathed in cold sweat, his heart thundering. His breath came in short gasps. He made to turn, but his body would not heed the call of his will. He twisted, his knees buckling. They struck the cold, stone floor hard, jostling him roughly. Then he pitched forward and landed painfully on his front.

The air rushed from his lungs. Everything seemed so slow, so distant, so removed from the furious agony claiming him. It spread from his side like a flame, burning all it touched until he could not even begin to combat it. Even as his body failed him, though, his mind struggled. He blinked, but his vision would not clear. Still, he could see. And he could hear.

_Legolas…_

Blond hair cascaded about a reddened face. There was laughter. Tortured and tormented, twisted with madness. A bloody blade shone violently in the sun. The knife Éowyn had been using. The hand that held it shook ferociously. The laughter blotted out even the rush of his straining heart, so loud it was, and painfully distressing. After that, the voice choked, and the guffaws became sobs, deep and shaking. Gasping, grating Sindarin filled the air. "Fit for a killer." A laugh, as though amused by the prospect. Then a weeping wail.

Faramir cried himself, for the fool he was and the things he had thought he knew. The pain was teaching him now, battering a lesson into his head. He was an arrogant, pompous idiot. He had never understood. For all his thinking, his would-be smarts, he had never understood!

_No one can see all ends._

But, again, it was too late. A fool's penance, really. The price one paid for his conceit.

Then the knife descended once more, but this time there was no bite of the cold steel into his body. Instead, the blade sunk deep into the chest of the one who had stabbed him. "Fitting… The only thing  _fit!_ " Again and again, the knife came down. Faramir watched the brutality, woozy as the blood drained from his body and pooled on the floor. As his life was beat from his flesh. Apathy shunted the hurt away, for he could take no more. His spirit was broken. He felt hot and cold, alive and dead, lost and found. He would die this time as he should have on that balcony. On that bed. Perhaps even on that field where he had first failed. His life would finally be taken from him by the one he had wronged.

So the darkness came again, familiar to him from chances before unfulfilled. It was hungry for him, teased by these previous denials, and he was too beaten to struggle anymore. Eagerly, it pushed him to a great precipice, a waiting abyss opening below him. This was fitting. Fit for a killer. Fit for one so broken, so blemished. Blackness encroached upon his vision, devouring the yellow and red. Sensation faded. The last thing he felt was the cooling, thick liquid beneath him and the still body beside him. Then he slipped down, plummeting from the cliff.

They were still, the two friends who had once talked and worked and dreamed together of a bright future. Only the blood moved as it spread across the floor, a lake of life pouring out into a cold, quiet world.


	32. The King Stands Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** And so we begin part three. Let's see what Aragorn has to say… :-D. Thanks for reading!

**PART THREE**

_I am lost in it, my lord. But let him come._  
_It warms the very sickness in my heart_  
_That I shall live and tell him to his teeth,_  
_"Thus didest thou."_

—  _William Shakespeare,_ Hamlet _, Act IV.7_

"I am afraid."

The words were weak, pitiful even, and they sounded rough and alien to his ears. Was it his voice that had spoken? Was it his heart that was crying for reprieve?

"I am so afraid."

The room was still. The admittance echoed, the heavy sound reverberating off the stone walls and ceiling to crash endlessly into his head. Like waves of a violent ocean assaulting the shore, the sound pounded into him, menacing in its pulsing intensity. It did not seem right to concede his fear. Of course he was frightened. He was not so grand or powerful as to be above terror, or to think these disasters were within his control. But he had never said the words so plainly, so unabashedly, and though there was no one present to witness his defeat, it was no less potent for its privacy. The submission made him weak and worthless. He was king, and kings did not convey fear. But more than this, he was the one left behind. The one who had not listened, who had not trusted, and in doing so, he had become the one who had set into motion this misery. It stood to reason that he should, thus, be the one to amend the mistakes that had been made.

And  _he_  was the one who was afraid. Truly pathetic.

Aragorn sighed. The slow release of a hot breath from his body relaxed him somehow, and he breathed deeply, finding momentary reprieve in the steady rhythm. It was lulling enough to dull the sharp edge of his pain. He stood stiffly, looking out over Minas Tirith. His quick eyes analyzed the descent of gray rooftops before him, examining each with subconscious attention. Night would soon come, and it promised to be cold and unyielding. A few flecks of snow floated down, dancing before him on invisible zephyrs and then continuing their random descent. He watched, envying them for the simplicity of their existence. The bends and twists in their paths were of no consequence, and no matter where they landed, their fate remained the same. The ground beneath them was clearly visible as they sank gently to it. There was no doubt, no horror. A road so defined. He longed for such security.

He grunted and turned away from the view. The White City was gloomy and gray this night, choked by the darkness that had come over it, and he did not wish to suffer the evidence of his failure. The meeting room was quiet. The fire burning brightly in the hearth popped and sizzled, whispering a mocking rant beneath its breath. The great oak table shone in the light, a few parchments and books spread across its illustrious surface. The room had fallen into a bit of disarray since the siege had begun, the maids who typically tended to it instead adopting tasks of greater importance. Resting on the table, wrapped still in that blue cloth, was the arrow they had had forged. Aragorn glanced at it, his hands folded across his chest. Something about it disturbed him. He felt uneasy about this entire matter, as this plan seemed entirely implausible and overly convoluted. Faramir appeared confident enough, though Aragorn could not fathom what strange path of thought had led the steward to the conclusions he had explained earlier. There had been a certain glint in the other's eyes, a firm set to his jaw and tone in his voice, that had convinced Aragorn of his veracity. The ranger found it difficult to share in his friend's convictions. He had not been certain of anything since Legolas had been stricken with that awful dream, and he worried now that he might never be again.

Thoughts of that terrible morning brought with them unpleasant memories stampeding across his mind, bloody and awesome in all their crushing violence. Now, so many weeks since that fateful meeting with Legolas, he could not help but wonder what had driven him to so blatantly brush aside his dearest friend's advice. At the moment it had seemed perfectly logical. No matter his personal relationship with the Elf, no matter the deep and loving bond they shared, he could not base an entire foreign policy upon one dream, no matter its nature. Legolas had been behaving rather strangely since he had arrived in Minas Tirith after Cair Andros, and it had been unusual enough to convince Aragorn that the prince had spoke thoughtlessly. Aragorn had known the other for the majority of his life, and he was well aware that Legolas hardly considered himself a leader. His strained relationship with his father seemed always to loom over him, casting a lasting shadow on everything he did as a lord, hindering him in ways Aragorn found subtle but saddening. Despite that, though, Legolas rarely bemoaned his choices. Aragorn should have known immediately that something was deeply troubling his friend that day after Faramir had been wounded, when Legolas had so obviously and irrationally doubted himself as the commander of the Elven colony. He should have realized it then, but he had not.

His ignorance had been his first mistake.

And somehow that had initiated a terrible cascade of inevitable destruction. Duty had blinded him. He had parsed love for his friend from love for his nation, and that had been a costly error. Legolas had not been overly descriptive in his recollection of the dream, but what the Elf had said had been enough to riddle Aragorn with agony and fury. The haunting conversation had burned into his memory.  _"They beat me, tortured me… He forced himself upon me. He defiled me and then laughed at my screams."_ He had heard these awful things, the terrible revelations slithering their way inside him to sink poisonous fangs into his spirit. But he had not  _listened_. He had been so determined to explain away Legolas' misery that he had completely ignored what the Elf had been trying to tell him. It had been his wound. Nay, his exhaustion. Perhaps it had simply been his distrust of these men after seeing what had occurred at Cair Andros, after coming to care for that orphaned girl so deeply… But it had not been any of these things. The answer had been there before him, but he had ignored it out of fear of impropriety, casting it aside for its incredulity and instead rebuking Legolas with denials and groundless defenses of the Haradrim. From that moment, a wall had come between the two them, one made strong by anger and hurt and helpless defeat.  _"Why is my word suddenly not enough?"_  He closed his eyes, the pain welling up inside him.  _"You betray me with your doubt, Aragorn."_

Doubt and betrayal. That had been his second.

However, it was the third error that had been the most damning. He had played into Holis' hands. The emperor had meant to make a weapon of his emotions, and he had. He looked back on the previous weeks, hating them for their torturous length and himself for his weakness. How could he have acted so callously? Shame bubbled up within him, dark and murky like a thick, foul mud that coated everything and could not be washed away. When Gondor had needed its king, he had been woefully unable to serve them. He had been present in flesh but absent in spirit, tormented greatly by the devastation of Legolas. After the war party had left Minas Tirith for Emyn Nimsîr, he had scolded himself for letting Legolas leave angry. The distance between them hurt him greatly, their friendship strained by the weight of their sudden inability to understand each other. He should have made amends, apologized at least, before the Elf had ridden to battle. But, again, he had failed. And when the army had returned with news of Legolas' fall, the pain had taken him. The mere thought of Legolas dead had transformed any peace he had might have had into a vicious monster of woe and guilt. Had the Elf perished alone? Would the last words the two friends shared be ones of anger and bitterness? The grief had consumed him, and at the time, the strength of these feelings had been an adequate shield to protect him from the nightmare swirling about him. If Legolas had been killed, a part of Aragorn's soul would have disappeared forever, slaughtered by the death of one he loved as his own kin. Denial had been above all a means of self-preservation, and he had embraced it whole-heartedly. To believe that Legolas would never return had not been an option to him, and he had not cared who he had hurt with his cold anger.

He had been right. Legolas had come back to them. Aragorn's betrayal had earned him betrayal in turn. His dearest friend, the Elf who brought life and love to all who knew him, who had stood unwavering during so many perils, who always offered strength at times silent but never wavering, had been used against him. Tortured. Raped. Brutalized in ways Aragorn doubted he himself could have withstood. They had taken a peaceful, beautiful, ageless creature and turned him into a monster. They had done so to enrage him, and they had succeeded. Left with nothing but the pulsing heat of his anger, Aragorn had blinded himself to logic and morality. Legolas' abduction and degradation had troubled him like a weeping wound, and he had lashed out. Foolishly. Arrogantly. Vengeance had seemed too obviously evil for the goodness within him to accept, but as hurt as he had been, he had readily sought it for its promise of amelioration. He should have known better than to believe the lies of violence. He should have realized the trap into which he had dumbly wandered. Holis had anticipated his mistakes simply because Aragorn had let him. He had been hurt, and instead of stopping to think, he had simply hurt back. Legolas had been turned into a monster, but Aragorn had willingly become one.

Guilt poisoned his soul and made his heart quiver. He was ashamed of ever doubting Legolas. He was ashamed of how he had treated Faramir, for the contempt he had brandished against his friend, for the hurtful words and angry impatience. He was ashamed of neglecting his roles and duties. When his city had been under attack, Faramir had led the defense. Faramir had controlled the minutia of protecting their nation while he had wallowed in a pit of despair and doubt. It had been Faramir as well who had had the strength to pull him from the mire. He had hardly acted the king these weeks past, and he knew this was one failing he could never quite amend. Changing the course of the future would not alter the past. And even now… now when the road was perhaps shifting beneath their feet, he was fettered by the same selfish desires. He might prefer to think otherwise, to consider himself in higher or better regard, but such esteem was not at all truthful. Faramir's plan was perhaps ill-conceived and somewhat ludicrous, but it was significantly more than he had been able to conjure in these last days. It was  _something_. And he had greedily sought to take it for the vengeance it promised. That tense debate of a few minutes prior had been nothing more than a contest of bloodied spirits, and both the steward and the king had known it. This was the chance to strike back, to see that blood was repaid, and it would not seem  _real_  to Aragorn unless it was he who unleashed that silly arrow. Blood lust won nothing, and vengeance had trapped him before. Still, he hungered for it. It did not seem to matter if this scheme would work beyond that. He wanted that moment. He yearned for it. Everything else seemed so terribly bleak, so utterly irreparable, that that moment alone seemed the only way to restore any semblance of justice.

Weakness. He was sinking again, drowning in the very emotions that had before made a victim of his nation. Aye, that had been the worst mistake, the one that Holis had counted upon his making. He had brushed Legolas' warning aside because he had believed himself to be so wise and powerful as to differentiate between matters of love and matters of duty. He had tried to separate the brother from the king. He had tried to distinguish between the parts of his spirit, and in doing so he had only weakened them all. Even still, with all of Holis' hideous machinations displayed before him, he could not set aside his shame. Certainly the emperor's plans had been cunning and likely unstoppable. However, this rationale did little to ease his guilt. It had been  _his_  arrogance,  _his_  weakness, that Holis had so elegantly wielded against them.

The thought of reversing the game and using such things against Holis made his heart speed in excitement. However, he was sure it would not be that simple. Faramir was ingenious, proved countless times during meetings or simple conversations. The man was gifted with a quick wit and a keen intellect. If he saw success hiding amidst the complicated layers of this plan, then Aragorn had no doubt it was possible. But it was difficult to maintain optimism now, when the future was terribly uncertain and the past was riddled with mistakes.  _It is our best option. Our only option._  Conceding fear was one thing, alien to him but still acceptable. Conceding defeat was not.

Aragorn sighed and sat at the table. His body ached, and the wound he had received in his shoulder days past bothered him still. The throbbing of the area distracted him for a moment, and subconsciously he raised a hand to rub the tender spot. So close had the arrow come to striking his chest. The wound would have been fatal, and he had never seen the shot coming. He liked to imagine Legolas had not truly meant to kill him, that he had purposefully sought to strike where it would not inflict mortal damage. In all their long years together, Aragorn had only seen Legolas miss his mark a few times, and each situation had been extraordinary. The king had never met another with such unerring skill with a bow. Legolas was an archer above anything else, and Aragorn could not bring himself to believe that, had the Elf truly intended to kill him, he would not have failed.

Of course, it was not so easy to explain the subsequent attack. Aragorn closed his eyes, and he thought he could still feel Legolas' fingers digging brutally into the flesh of his jaw, the blinding pain in his arm when his dearest friend had cruelly struck his fresh wound to immobilize him. He thought he could still hear the quiet, calm breath of the Elf, steady and sickeningly strong in those terrifying moments. Had Legolas hesitated then? Aragorn did not believe so. If Gimli had not intervened, the king would likely be dead, his neck snapped by his dearest friend.

Aragorn dragged a slow breath into his aching body. These thoughts hurt, piling more misery onto the heap of despair that had once been his strong, proud spirit. He cleared his head, shaking it slightly and opening his eyes. He clasped his hands together before him and braced his chin upon them. He could not afford to indulge in self-pity. He had done so before at the expense of his kingdom, and he would not do it again.

There was a knock at the door. Aragorn released a breath he had been holding and straightened his bent form. Undoubtedly Gimli or Faramir had come to finalize their plans. "Come!" he called.

The portal opened, and the former entered the room. The Dwarf's ruddy face was dark with exhausted anger, but his eyes had regained a glint that Aragorn had thought to have been extinguished sometime ago during all this. It was a small twinkle of excitement, the same sort he had seen his dear friend bear many times in the past. When the Elf, the man, and the Dwarf had banded together to chase after Merry and Pippin in the wake of Boromir's death. When King Théoden had decided to ride from the fortress at Helm's Deep and face the onslaught of Saruman's army. When they had entered the Paths of the Dead and fought at Pelennor Fields. Indeed, Gimli's simple strength had heartened him often during the darkest of hours. Even now, as the Dwarf trudged closer and his face twisted into a malicious scowl, the light in his eyes warmed Aragorn's spirit.

The stout warrior sat in one of the chairs, his hands coming to rest on the polished table upon a mess of parchments. They were still for a moment, each sinking into the dark, deep swirls of thought within them. Then Gimli sighed. "Confound this all, Aragorn," he said. "I have never been so afraid."

Aragorn lifted his head and centered surprised eyes on the other. Gimli released another long breath before looking up himself. The two simply stared at one another a moment. This was the first time in a great while that they had been alone together and in such a time of relative quiet. Gimli's care was yet another facet of his life that Aragorn had bitterly and selfishly brushed aside during his self-inflicted exile. Trapped in a haze that had effectively blinded him, he had not noticed the pain Legolas' capture and defilement had put upon Gimli. Now his heart ached for the sorrow he saw in the other's crestfallen expression.  _I am not the only one. I have never been the only one!_  He damned himself for ever believing such a conceited thing to be the truth.

Gimli went on, speaking though revealing this part of his heart pained him anew. "I… I do not want to believe the truth in what Faramir has postulated. It disturbs me, infuriates me in ways I do not care to admit. To think that… that  _snake_  so openly lusted after Legolas, after my dearest friend…" He shook his head. "I did not think such evil could be possible. Even when we battled against Mordor, the black forces never stooped to so base and disgusting a motive. The minions of Dark Lord, as powerful and hateful as they were, had a token of – of  _honor_  to their acts. Baseless and cruel they were, but never did I feel such abhorrence, such hatred towards them as that that I now possess for this  _one_  man." The Dwarf grunted, dazed eyes staring absently at a half-coiled parchment of Arda before him. The dark orbs shone with furious tears. Gimli's tone dropped to a mere ghost of its usual, boisterous strength. "I ache inside for what has happened. The darkest moments of the War cannot compare to this unending nightmare. I believed then that no matter the turn of fate or the unpredictable twists of battle that I would never stand apart from Legolas. I love that fool Elf, Aragorn, more than is proper of my kind. He has become my closest confidant and my truest brother. I have done him a terrible wrong. I – I…" He faltered, his voice cracking. He paused briefly, as though he was about to unveil something of great shame and despair.

When he again controlled his emotions, the words came forth, sharpened by grief. "I knew he was ill. I knew long before Emyn Nimsîr. I saw it in his eyes, heard it in the way he spoke, felt it with every touch of his hand upon mine. He was afraid then, afraid like I am now. He was weakened and tormented by demons that he would not disclose to me. He is such a proud creature! Fool Elf. He never knows when it is in his best interest to confide in me! He thinks himself a burden constantly. He… Why could he not simply trust me? I would not have thought less of him. I would not have judged him. It tore at my heart to see him suffer… Why did he not accept the help I offered him?"

"Such is his way," Aragorn responded. He sighed, a particular memory prodding at his attention. "Once many years ago we had taken a journey from Imladris. We were attacked by wolves in the mountains and forced to return. The animals had greatly outnumbered us, and we barely escaped. Legolas had been bitten quite badly, but he had hidden it so well that I never even noticed until we reached Lord Elrond's halls. Even then, he would permit no one to tend to the wound. And in the days after, when he limped or suffered from the pain, he would not speak of it." The recollection was vivid. It was an event Aragorn had never forgotten, for though no permanent damage had been done to either the man or the Elf, it was the first time the young ranger had come to realize the depths of Legolas' distaste for weakness. He could still hear Legolas' words when the prince had responded to yet another concerned question as to his health.  _"Aragorn, you mother me more than my mother ever did. Cease your prattling over this. I am an Elf and a prince aside. Your worry is misplaced."_  But his worry had never been misplaced. Legolas was strong beyond any the king knew, but he was also terribly weak when it came to personal matters. He did not like to speak of things that hurt him. Such vulnerability had not been welcomed in King Thranduil's halls. The queen's death, as Aragorn understood it, had done much to bring a crisp coldness to the royal family. "Gimli, I have known him all my life, and even still I cannot understand the manner in which he thinks at times. He is a strange Elf. His relationship with his father colors all that he does in ways I still do not realize. He lived in a world where he thought himself unwanted, and though I suspect that was at least partly true, I also believe the pain of a child shunned has grown beyond proper measures throughout his life."

Gimli grunted again. "At times, I wish to box Thranduil's ears for what his peculiar parenting has done to his son."

"The king had his reasons," Aragorn declared. "My wife knows more of the dynamics of the royal family of Mirkwood than I, as Legolas has never cared to explain to me why he was estranged as a prince. I imagine, though, that as the youngest, he was barred from the role he was born to assume. He was much less than a second son. He was the last son, and for whatever reasons, the king thought him unworthy for the training he lavished upon Legolas' brothers."

"Legolas is a fine lord," Gimli said, his voice tight with resolution. "His people love him."

"Yes, he is," answered Aragorn, "but I believe Thranduil never saw the destiny with which his youngest son was gifted. Lord Elrond told me once that Legolas was fated for great things. And now I am beginning to see that path." Somehow this thought comforted him. "He is the strength behind Elven kind in Arda. He keeps them  _here_  to the benefit of all. He is the bridge between the Firstborn and the rest of our lands. Between Elves and Dwarves and between Elves and men. He walked the path of the Nine because he was meant to be the lasting light of the Eldar in this world. He was meant to save my people."

The room was still. The king gazed mindlessly ahead, watching as the sun shone on the opposite wall. Tiny specks of shadow floated downward, dancing lightly in a show of gold and black. Then he sighed softly. "And he has never seen that."

The two did not speak again for what felt to be a long time. Aragorn's declarations shaded the silence with sadness and regret, but with fervor as well. The love both of them held for the Elf was as strong as the fear that plagued them. Somehow this talk of fate was encouraging, as there were few forces in this world that were so enigmatic and apt to suddenly change their ambitions. The path was ever-winding, but the goal remained constant. If Legolas had some grander part to play, he would not die now. This was solace, at least.

"I want him back, Aragorn." The king turned to his friend, surprised and pained to hear the rasp of desperation and fear in Gimli's tone. "Perhaps it is selfish of me to say such a thing, but I want him back the way he was before any of this happened! I look upon him now and I see nothing of what I love and cherish. I fear Legolas is gone from us, and even if we somehow manage to restore his body, his soul will be irreparably damaged. If what Faramir says is true… He must be lost."

 _Lost. No. I can find him._  Aragorn reached across the table and grabbed Gimli's hand. "We  _will_  get him back. And when we do, we will help him. And Holis will pay for what he has done." He squeezed the thick fingers, his gaze hard with determination, and Gimli seemed heartened by his friend's optimism. The conviction was a welcomed balm, as of late such strength had not often been offered by the king. Had it only been a few days ago that Faramir had tried to convince him of the very same, to instill into his floundering resolve some measure of stability? He felt slightly guilty; he had done nothing to deserve the right to now proclaim hope. He had wallowed and wasted away in his misery, allowing others to bear the brunt of his duties, of his mistakes. He really did not deserve to be the one to offer strength to those that had before been strong. But the words felt good, and the relief on Gimli's face was enough to banish his shame.

They were quiet again. Aragorn released Gimli's hand, sitting back in his chair and sighing softly. The minutes escaped them without conversation, each waiting for Faramir to make his appearance with anxious hearts and fettered minds. When the emptiness grew too troublesome, it was Aragorn who filled it. "Do you believe this plan will work?"

The sadness had left Gimli's face, showing once more that encouraging glint. "Mayhap it will," he responded. He looked to his friend, the rust of his hair twitching as he turned his head. "I trust Faramir. He above all has remained cool during this debacle. If there is merit to be had, he will have found it."

Aragorn had thought the same before, but hearing the words spoken aloud was soothing. Then the silence threatened again, skirting upon the edges of their camaraderie. However, it would have no opportunity to reclaim its dominance. There was another knock at the door, this one fast and almost frantic. For a brief moment the king thought it must have been Faramir arriving. But the rapping was too quick, too small, somehow distinctly unlike the steward. Then a panicked voice cried out, the thick slab of wood muffling a feminine voice. "My King! My King! Oh, my Lord! Come quickly!"

The king's heart leapt into his throat, his skin tingling with sudden fear. His mind began to race, his thoughts scrambling into a frantic disorder and slamming into his skull. His stomach twisted, and suddenly a single realization thundered through him.  _Something is wrong. Something is wrong. Something is wrong…_

_Do something!_

He leapt from his chair, the wooden legs of the seat scraping loudly as it was pushed back. He glanced to Gimli as he rushed to the door. Grasping the knob, he pulled it open sharply.

A maid stood before him, her cheeks flushed and wet. "Oh, my King," she moaned. Bloody hands reached forth to grab Aragorn's tunic, twisting into the dark fabric with crushing desperation. "It's terrible! Please, you must help the Queen! Please, my Lord…"

For a moment, Aragorn could do naught but stare at the hysterical girl, his eyes seemingly stuck upon the red smearing into his tunic. His rattled mind could not make sense of it. Finally, the maid's frantic words caressed to life panic within him, their meaning emerging from a fog of confusion.  _The Queen._

_Arwen._

Then he was running. Gimli was calling behind him, commanding him to wait, but he did not care. About his heart a veil of terror had closed, and he could think of nothing save his wife. His legs pumped, and his lungs fought for breath enough to fuel his racing body. His heart pounded. The thought of her beauty covered in gruesome red, of her pain or sorrow, urged him to sprint faster. He had to reach her!

And then he stopped. His bewildered eyes glanced about, shocked by where his feet had taken him. Somehow he had subconsciously known, as if some part of him had intuitively realized the subtle meaning in the girl's words.  _Always it comes to here, to this place… Always the misery stems from this!_

But he thought no more on it, for there came a cry from inside the open room, and the king charged through the door.

Nothing prepared him for what he found.

The window was open, the curtains drawn back and secured with thickly coiled ties, and the sunset spilled into the room. Near the large sitting area, where two chairs idly rested, a lake of blood had spread across the floor. Aragorn simply stared at this a moment, as though he did not recognize the crimson liquid for what it was or what it meant. Like a sea of rubies it shimmered in the fading, golden light, bright and horrible. It was smeared across the stone, marring the once polished surface, and footprints tracked it about in gruesome paths. A knife lay on the edge of it, just barely touching the bloody bath. The blade glimmered wickedly in the sun, and about its white handle were the red marks of a murderer's hand.

A strangled wail pierced the shock that had shrouded Aragorn's mind. Breaking from his horrified paralysis, he stumbled further into the living quarters. He stopped at the foot of the bed, and his heart ceased its frantic pulsing. He could not breathe as his wide eyes fell upon the scene before him.

"Please, Legolas!" Arwen cried desperately. She sat on the bed, leaning over a struggling form, her hands desperately seeking to restrain those of the Elf prince. There was blood all over him, coating his fingers, soaking into his bedclothes. Most of it seemed concentrated around his lower chest and abdomen. "I need help!" his wife declared, her normally soft, melodic voice twisted in panic.

The dolor of her call was enough to rip Aragorn from his daze. He stumbled to the other side of the bed. And when he did, another horror was unveiled to him. Éowyn was crouched there, tears streaming freely down her sallow face. Cradled in her arms was her husband, and she pressed a bloody cloth over a gaping wound in Faramir's side. Blood was pouring from the area in a hot torrent, spilling from the deep laceration to escape the press of her hand and drip to the floor. The steward's face was white, his eyes sealed tightly shut. Though unconscious, his expression betrayed the agony that he endured, his visage twisted in a show of pain and terror. Éowyn looked up as Aragorn stepped near to her, her blue eyes frantic with fury and fear. They twinkled malevolently in the setting sun.

One of the other healers was speaking. Aragorn had hardly noticed the man's presence. "We must stitch this wound quickly!" he declared, his weathered face contorted in rushed thought. "He bleeds horrendously!"

There were more voices. A female's softer pitch rose above the din, familiar and calmer than any other. Ioreth. "The adjacent room is empty," declared the woman as she stepped inside the chaotic quarters. "Let us move him there! There is not room to properly tend it here!"

And indeed there was not. Legolas thrashed on the bed, and it took both Arwen and another healer to keep the Elf immobile. One of Legolas' flailing arms knocked a stand of medicinal supplies, and the small wooden structure tipped and fell under the blow. The others about Faramir helped to raise the limp steward, Éowyn standing as well. Blood covered her dress. Ioreth called to him. "Do not worry for the steward, my King. Tend to the prince!" They moved then, lifting Faramir between them and quickly departing the terrible place. The steward's hand fell from his chest, nearly dragging upon the floor as they struggled to carry him past the bed. Blood dribbled from the man's fingers. Aragorn watched, each crimson drop tumbling slowly to splash upon the stone below, and time slowed to his eyes. He saw Faramir's face, saw the pain and fear, and image burned into his mind. So many weeks ago had passed since they had shared one moment, one hope, one vow to remain standing when all other pillars crumbled and fell. Weakness had connected them, weakness and fear.  _"I cannot lose you as well."_  And though Faramir had not responded, Aragorn had known the depths of his silent promise. The steward would stand beside his king, no matter the peril or pain or punishment.

And Faramir had, it seemed. Until the very end.

"Estel." Arwen's choked whisper drew his attention, and he turned again, ripping around so quickly that the muscles in his neck snapped angrily at the sudden motion. She sat upon the bed, tears making her wide blue eyes glisten as pools of clear liquid might in the rays of the sun. "Help me."

Aragorn swallowed, his throat dry and hurting, as he pushed his way onto the bed. His eyes fell over the shaking body of his dearest friend, but he failed to make sense of the horrific scene. Mindlessly he grabbed Legolas' wrists. He pulled them upward and pinned them onto the bed. Then, as carefully as he could, he laid his weight over the injured Elf to keep him immobile.

Legolas screamed. The sound was deep and torn with agony, and Aragorn winced. The king loosened his grip slightly, fearing that he was causing the riled Elf pain. But if the Elf suffered, a physical malady was not its cause. His eyes were squeezed shut, as though to open them would expose him to the demons that haunted him. "Legolas, please," Arwen whispered in Sindarin. Her words heralded no comfort though, enticing much the opposite in their friend. Legolas wailed again, struggling mightily against Aragorn's hold. "Peace! You are safe! There is nothing to fear!"

Hot tears spilled from the prince's eyes, streaming down his face and dampening his hair. He did not respond to Arwen's assurances, fighting to turn to his side and wriggle away from them. Aragorn watched in stupefaction, holding the Elf's blood-covered hands tighter and pinning his writhing form to the mattress. Surely Legolas was in pain! The wounds on his abdomen bled freely. And yet the Elf thwarted every effort Arwen made to pull the stained, torn nightshirt from the injured area. It was almost as if he wanted to hurt, as if he desired the pain and the blood. As though he was punishing himself.

It was not until that moment that Aragorn's muddled mind managed to understand what had happened. Legolas had stabbed Faramir. And then Legolas had done this to himself. The tears came unbidden, loosing themselves from the king's despairing eyes.  _Why? Why this? Why?_

"Lie still," Arwen ordered. She had gathered herself, and her blue eyes were narrowed as she finally managed to push Legolas' shirt up his chest and reveal the damage he had inflicted upon himself. "The knife did not cut too deeply," his wife murmured, "though I believe some will require suturing."

A great huffing mass charged into the room. "Curse you, lad!" Gimli snapped, staggering as he fought to keep his breath. "Not again! I am not some slug that can be left behind when it so suits you!" But then his dark eyes fell about the lake of blood and the mess upon the bed. "What has happened?"

Aragorn struggled to swallow, holding Legolas steady as Arwen returned and sat at his side. "He attacked Faramir. Then he stabbed himself." He heard himself say these things, heard the familiar resonance of his tone inside his head. But it did not seem real. That voice offered strength and calm he did not possess.

Gimli shook his head. "That is not possible. That is–" The Dwarf's voice cracked, and the color drained from his face. He bowed his head, most likely to hide his disgust and shame. "I am a fool. This was not the first time he tried, Aragorn."

Fury burst through the ranger like a hot iron prodding his flesh, and he ripped away, skewering Gimli with a violent glare. "What?"

"Before," the Dwarf stammered, his eyes wild and his expression taut with fear and misery. He stumbled to the foot of the bed, resting his hands atop the wooden end. "I did not think – When Faramir came, Legolas assaulted him. Nearly strangled the life out of him! But I did not understand it, and then–"

"Why did you not tell me?" the king snapped, his teeth clenched and his glare harrowing. Legolas screamed again.

"I did not understand!" Gimli repeated, exasperated and desperate to defend himself from Aragorn's rage. He winced as the Elf proclaimed his misery again, the awful cry echoing through the room. "I thought it a random act! It did not occur to me that it was something more!" The Dwarf shook his head. "And when Faramir began to explain what he discovered…" He did not finished, but what the stout warrior had left unsaid was achingly clear. It had slipped his mind.

Aragorn's eyes darted subconsciously to the dreadful puddle of blood shimmering in the setting sun. Frustration slapped at him. Truthfully, he did not understand either. Holis had explained this  _thral-gûl_  to be a mission of sorts, a dark will planted upon the machinery of the perfect warrior for a single promise. Yet Legolas had attacked Faramir twice, apparently.  _Nay, not twice. Thrice._  A hazy memory came to the king as he pondered this. As he concentrated on it, it gained a stunning clarity. When Faramir had suddenly attacked Holis that day on the field, the emperor had said something to him. At the time, Aragorn had not though much of it, his mind sundered by the weight of Holis' betrayal and the knowledge of Legolas being used against him. At the time he had thought the emperor's smooth comments had merely been another of his taunts. Now, as he considered them again, Aragorn was not so sure.  _"Shall I tell you, Faramir, why Legolas charged you upon that balcony? Why he turned his blades upon you when I gave to him a task he should not have been able to deny?"_  Had Holis lied about what this black magic had done? Certainly it was within his character to have done so. But why? Or perhaps it was no act of premeditation. Perhaps this heinous curse had simply reduced Legolas to a violent murderer, prompted by little more than bloodlust to kill.

 _No! He attacked Faramir three times! He meant to kill him as much as he meant to kill me!_  And yet, if that was the case, why would Holis target Legolas' brutality upon the steward? What threat had Faramir posed?

Aragorn's head began to hurt. He could not make sense of this, at least not when Legolas was crying so terribly and bleeding badly. Arwen was looking to him expectantly, her lips pulled tightly into a thin, worried line. It was as though she understood the mess of his thoughts better than he. "There are questions to be asked," she declared softly, her voice steady, "but we must ask them later. We must tend to this, and Faramir will need more care than Éowyn can give him."

Aragorn released a slow breath, ashamed at his distraction. "Of course," he said. "I will go to him." He had to. Faramir was more seriously wounded and required greater aid. He had faith Arwen could handle Legolas. He had to have faith. He watched Arwen press a towel to Legolas' bleeding abdomen, applying pressure tight enough to slow the bleeding. The Elf prince cried, heated trails of wetness painting a flushed face, and he wriggled under the force of Arwen's hands. It was as though their touches were physically causing him duress. The fit chilled Aragorn anew as it had days before. "Be still, my brother," he whispered to Legolas, his voice weak.

"Master Gimli," Arwen called. "Please, I need your hands in this. Hold this over the wounds. Tightly, now," the queen instructed. The Dwarf obeyed, his rough hands taking the blood-soaked linens from her and then laying them again over the hideous slashes. "I shall sew these two. The others are not as deep. Gimli, you need only clean the blood, but I must ask you to lay your weight upon his chest. I cannot have him move during this. Can you do that?"

"Aye, I can hold him."

Aragorn hesitated a moment more. Then he saw his wife smile weakly. She said, "Do not be afraid." The words floated on the air like sparkles of sunlight, and hearing them eased the hurting soul. "Do not be afraid, for I have you. And I will not let you go."

He knew she was right. Aragorn ran from the room.

* * *

Hours later, Aragorn returned, beaten and wearied and frightened. He sat on Legolas' bed, his back braced against the sturdy, polished headboard behind him. Though his eyes were closed, he remained aware of everything around him. He could hear the wind rattle the panes of the windows and the fire crackle as it devoured the logs placed in the hearth. He could hear the soft footfalls of servants as they walked the lonely, cold corridors beyond the closed door. He could hear Legolas' soft breathing and his own heart beating. He smelled the faint aroma of winter, masked by the scent of burning wood. He smelled herbs, strong and familiar. Despite their efforts, though, they could not cover the lingering twang of blood that hung upon the still air, and Aragorn smelled this as well. He tasted it. He tasted it and the salty sting of sweat and drying tears. His breath was warm, but it tasted foul to him. Foul and feeble.

Gimli had departed some time ago, reluctantly following Aragorn's request to see to the preparations of his soldiers. Their plan could obviously not go forth as such, not when Faramir was so seriously wounded. Though the king had not declared the scheme invalid or otherwise over, a delay was, in this case, tantamount to abandonment. All of their plots were stalled by these horrendous events. It was difficult to even consider them knowing Faramir suffered, but Aragorn did. He tried to tell himself that it was not all for naught, that there was still a chance they could strike as they had planned. As the hours dragged into a dreary night, that possibility seemed more and more remote. Despite all the cries of rationality, this silly strategy seemed to be impossible without Faramir. Even the thought of attempting it without their beloved steward twisted his stomach.

The king sighed, feeling the aches of his body again compound those of his heart. Presently Faramir was faring better. The injury was quite serious, but both Aragorn and Ioreth felt confident the steward would survive. He was now resting comfortably, and the king had administered a healing broth to limit infection and ward away fever. Éowyn had been nearly militant in the care of her husband, as though the cold comfort of control had protected her heart from misery. Such a tactic sounded embarrassingly familiar to Aragorn. Faramir needed rest above all; the king knew this and took his leave, despite a frustrated and ardent desire to stay in the event some other horror befell them. He had tended men stabbed many times in the past, and he was well aware that, beyond closing the wound, easing pain, and administering preventive medicines, there was little a healer might do to save the victim. Much of Faramir's survival now depended on the steward himself, and Éowyn would keep vigil to ensure her husband continued fighting.

So Aragorn had returned to Legolas. The Elf had been made to drink another sedating concoction after Arwen had finished treating his wounds, and since then he had slept. It was obvious, now more than ever before, that Legolas could not be left unattended. Neither could he be allowed control of his body, for it was clear he could suddenly and without provocation kill. The prince was a danger to both himself and others. Even now Aragorn shuddered with that thought. It was the queen who suggested they restrain him. Even in the face of Gimli's predictable wrath, she had remained adamant.  _"I have no wish to do such a horrible injustice to him,"_  she had said, her voice cracking slightly and her eyes misting.  _"But I will gladly see it done if it will save his life or the life of another."_  Her logic, as painful as it was, made aching sense. Gimli had never agreed, proclaiming that should Aragorn do this, he would not stand beside him. But the king had seen his wife's reasoning cold but necessary. Legolas was homicidal and a deadly warrior besides. Even debilitated, his strength was obviously beyond measure. They could not have him attack another person. They had been fortunate this time. Faramir might have easily bled to death before he had been found. Luck very rarely favored those twice foolish, and Aragorn was unwilling to take the chance.

Thus, after changing Legolas into clean nightclothes and bathing him as best as they could with the myriad bandages fastened about his body, they had set to restraining him in the bed. Cuffs of linen were wrapped around his wrists and ankles to act as padding and prevent discomfort. Chains were acquired, for Aragorn had feared rope too frail a thing to properly restrain a maddened Elf. The manacles were locked about his limbs and looped under the bed. There would be no way Legolas could free himself from such a prison. Everything, all flasks and bottles, anything with a sharp or even blunt edge, was removed from the vicinity of the bed. Also, despite Holis' earlier warnings, the king and queen had come to an accord that sedating their friend was probably also necessary. Aragorn was hesitant to agree to it; though he knew the emperor was a liar and a thief, he was well aware that the most damning truths were those surrounded by falsehoods. Perhaps he had been right in advising them not to commit Legolas to a drugged unconsciousness. There was no way to be sure. The king was less certain about the machinations of this  _thral-gûl_  than he had ever been. It was a risk they would have to take. If Legolas were to awake and find himself trussed and bound to a bed, the repercussions would likely be worse than whatever consequences might arise from rendering him unaware.

He heard a cruel, hurt laugh reverberating between his ears. " _You would drug me into a senseless stupor? Do you think so lowly of me? Thank you, but no. I will face this myself if you will not help me."_  The king opened his eyes and looked down to his friend, those words troubling him with guilt. Legolas was still, breathing steadily, his dry lips parted slightly as his breath rattled from him. The blanket covered him up to his mid-chest, hiding the ugly chains from view. The conversation replayed itself in Aragorn's mind.

" _Legolas, please, stop this! You are not yourself! You talk of madness!"_

A hateful glare.  _"Then perhaps I am mad, Aragorn."_

 _Madness. Is that what this is?_  Aragorn released a slow breath, his chest aching. Despite the fervent denials of his heart, he could not convince himself of otherwise. In all his long years of living among the Firstborn, he had never heard of one attempting suicide. Just the prospect seemed sour and ludicrous. They were creatures of unending poise, of spiritual strength and limitless courage. They did not despair. They did not falter when pain came to them. The conclusion that stemmed from this was undeniable and greatly distressing: whatever part of Legolas still clinging to sanity had decided death was the only escape.

Tears burned Aragorn's eyes, but he angrily blinked them away. There were too many unknowns, too many possibilities to consider, and they hardly possessed all the information. Though he was not as keen a thinker as Faramir, Aragorn prided himself on his level-headed intelligence. He could not base a deduction so devastating on a few skewed facts. Perhaps this was merely another twisted torment of this black magic. Perhaps it was Holis' evil will that had driven Legolas to stab himself. He took solace in that belief.  _Those wounds were not fatal. They would not have killed him. He mangled himself, but he did not inflict damage enough to take his life. If he had meant to do it, surely he would have!_

But, as it had before, this line of thinking offered little in terms of relief.

Thus, he resigned not to contemplate the matter further until Arwen returned. She was a far more talented healer than he was, having inherited her father's love for life. Under Elrond's tutelage, Arwen had blossomed into a skilled practitioner of the medical arts. Her knowledge was vast, and there were few things she did not understand. If anyone could help Legolas, he remained confident it was she.

The silence crushed him against the bed. He began to wonder of other things, his mind sneakily slipping from his grasp to address matters he had forgotten in the panic. Had the Gateway fallen? Aragorn looked toward the window, the night deep and dark. He could see nothing beyond the glass, as though the world did not exist outside of the room. Irehadde had briefly sought his council earlier, requesting orders on how to proceed. Frankly, Aragorn had not known. The cold had slowed the Haradrim's attack on the outside wall, but the relief would do nothing but postpone the inevitable. According to the Dunadan, the swell against the parapet had lessened. Inexplicably it seemed as though Holis was ordering fewer and fewer men to charge the gate. Lines and lines of black still marred Pelennor Fields when the sun had set. Surely the emperor was taunting them again. Perhaps he deemed this effort a silly thing that was not worth the effort of a full attack any longer. Regardless, supplies were spent. Aragorn had told Irehadde to hold the wall as long as possible, but not to waste the lives of men if the Haradrim began to surmount the Gateway. Falling back to the second gate was the logical subsequent action, and for lack of a better plan, he had told his subordinate to do just that and hold the enemy as long as possible. Hopefully, in the time the last of the defense lingered, this mess would begin to sort itself out and he could again find a path.

Hopefully. There was no solace in that, either.

The emptiness tormented him. It seemed a swelling vortex, reaching out to him with eager fingers.  _Have we not suffered enough?_  he wondered plaintively.  _Have we not bled? Have we not cried? What more do you ask of me?_  Yet the quiet abyss did not answer him. This was its wont, he supposed, to take and yet never justify its insatiable hunger.  _Aye,_  he thought, dipping his head,  _I am afraid. I will never be rid of this fear._

Aragorn knew not what prompted him to fight, then. The coldness of the winter air had permeated through his skin as though his flesh was of no substance at all but a poor illusion of a protective barrier. It drove an icy spike into his spirit, chilling him with its violence. But he did not wish to stand for it. Again his anger protected him, and embraced the fledgling fire of his fury. He did not want to admit defeat. He did not want to concede that their scheme had been destroyed before it had truly begun. He did not wish to submit that his dearest brother had nearly brutally murdered his most trusted adviser. These things were foreign lies, inconsequential to a struggling spirit, and he would not be hampered by them.

So he sung. The soft words came from his lips unbidden, the melody one that Elrond had used to calm him when he had been a child afraid of the dark and his mother's death. The Elvish flowed from him, sweet and powerful, filling that hungry void with poisonous peace. His voice faltered in the beginning, but he did not stop, stilling its timbre and continuing in the song. The demons howled a silent scream of misery, stepping back, frightened by the strength of Aragorn's attack.

Yet, for every demon defeated, there was always another waiting to take its place.

"Aragorn?"

His voice hitched in his throat and his heart stopped in surprise. He looked down, not daring to breathe, wondering if what he heard could possibly be real. His eyes widened, and for a moment everything was terribly still. It  _was_  real.

Legolas' eyes were half-lidded. The blue orbs were hazy with pain and terror, and he seemed to have great difficulty focusing. From their corners leaked tears that rolled down his temples. His face was lax, his lips struggling to form words. He seemed so sick, so weak. His voice was a whisper, a brush of air and sound upon ringing ears. "Aragorn?"

Relief burst through the king, strong enough to wrest a choked sob from his throat and render him utterly shaken. He slid from the bed, the pains of his body forgotten as he quickly angled himself around to lean over Legolas' body. Desperate to touch his friend, he laid a shaking hand against a white cheek. "Legolas? Legolas? Oh, my friend… I am here. I am here!"

The Elf blinked slowly. Terror rose inside the king when he thought Legolas' eyes would not open again. But they did, lethargically. His eyes seemed dim, their light guarded by agony and shadow. "I… I am tired." He was fighting for breath, fighting for the energy to speak. Aragorn did not know by what manner of miracle Legolas had managed to escape the grasp of the  _thral-gûl_ , but he was determined not to let that monster take his brother again! "It hurts… So badly! I cannot bear more of it."

The king began to cry. "Please, be strong," he implored, sweeping his thumb over the Elf's cheekbone, wiping away tears.

Legolas' eyes slipped shut. "It is hopeless." Aragorn shook his head. "Please… you can release… you can release me from this."

The king recoiled as though the Elf's cold flesh had suddenly burned him. Shock rattled him, jolting him painfully like a strike of lightning. He lingered in a state of terrified stupefaction for the longest moment, wondering if what he had heard could possibly be truth. Then he sharply shook his head. "No! I cannot! I will not!"

But the Elf said no more. Aragorn did not care that he had slipped away again, leaning over his friend's motionless body and declaring firmly, "You will fight, Legolas! You are stronger than this! Your father raised no weakling, no coward! Do you hear me?" The anger in his voice alarmed him, but he found he could not stop his tirade. Comfort and tears had done nothing to bring the Elf back to them. Perhaps rage was a better weapon. "You are not the warrior I know. You are not the brother I respected! What has become of your strength, of your fire?" Aragorn grasped his shoulders and shook him. The Elf whimpered. "Do not hide from me! Is it your own blood you seek? Is it your own pain? Death? Well, you shall not have it! I will not let you have it!"

Legolas pulled at the chains. They rattled as he struggled. "Do… do not touch me!"

Aragorn's heart thundered. He took Legolas' face again and forced the other to look at him. From the haze emerged a spark of recognition.  _That is it, my friend. Fight!_  "You must face me! Come back to me, Legolas! Fight me, if you wish! Yell at me! Just do not go back to that shadow! Scream at me if that suits you! I know you are angry!"

Much to Aragorn's dismay, the Elf actually did just that. The piercing wail echoed through the room, making the king cringe and immediately regret what he had done. This was not a cry of anger. This was something more, something darker and deeper. Then it occurred to him. The hands on Legolas' face, the chains… Helplessness.

Aragorn gasped and pulled away, horrified. He felt nauseous and nearly heaved. Legolas bucked on the bed, pulling powerfully at his restraints. He blinked, and the shadows came back to his eyes. And yet that shine of recognition remained. He was not addressing demons or the men who had hurt him. He glared at Aragorn murderously.  _At Aragorn._  "I will kill you," he hissed. "I will kill you for what you have done to me! Monster! I will kill you!"

The king choked on his breath, one hand covering his mouth, the other balled into a tight fist in the linens of the bed. He said nothing because he could not think to speak. His head throbbed. Stunned and frightened, he merely sat there and watched as Legolas continued to fight against his bonds. This continued for what seemed to be an eternity before the Elf broke into anguished sobs. He spoke as he cried, but his breath was so battered and twisted with weeping that Aragorn could not understand the words. Then Legolas lost consciousness, though whether from the medication, exhaustion, or some other plight Aragorn did not know.

He did not move for a long time. Then he raked shaking fingers through his hair. What had he just done? What had he just awoken? Surely he had reached Legolas, but with him had come something vile, something dark and dangerous. He cursed himself for ever believing anger to be a weapon against this hateful magic! He had pulled Legolas into the light, unveiling the fiends that bound him to the shadows. In what sort of prison was his friend locked? Was he reliving those torments, the torture, the violation, the misery that had beaten his spirit into submission? Aragorn did not know the nature of the illusion Holis had used upon him, but it seemed entirely plausible that that ordeal haunted the Elf still. Certainly it would be a means to keep his once vibrant spirit in chains. What sort of terror was it? Perhaps it was what had driven Legolas to beg for death. And, in this horrific perversion of reality, had Aragorn obliged his friend's plea?

_Ai, Elbereth…_

There was a knock at the door. Before the king could rise and wipe at his wet cheeks, Arwen stepped inside the room. Her skirts swished as she walked, and the soft sound made Aragorn's head ache. "Estel," she said, breathless and worried, "what has happened? I heard Legolas cry…"

Aragorn drew a shaking breath into his body. He damned himself for his weakness, forcing his limbs to still their quivering and his heart to cease its racing. His knees nearly buckled, but he remained standing. Anger flooded through him. "He awoke briefly, but I…" His voice failed him. Arwen watched him, her beautiful face fractured in hurt. Obviously the sight of him so riled, his cheeks damp with tears and his form bent with despair, troubled her greatly.

He sagged.  _Curse this all!_  His hand clenched into a fist, his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palm until it pained him. "I do not understand any of this!" How often had he said those words these past days? How often had he spat them for the bitterness they left upon his tongue? He thundered on, desperate to speak as though admitting his shortcomings could somehow be a substitute for true action. "I do not understand how they could do this to him! He is an Elf! He is the son of Thranduil, the prince of a powerful nation, the lord of all of the Eldar that remain in Middle Earth! He should have been stronger! How could they have defeated his will?"

"I do not know," Arwen whispered.

The king fumed. "And how do they maintain his spirit in this prison? Legolas would not go willingly, and he would not stay down while some monster inhabited his body! I know it!" He felt like ripping the hair from his head. "I just want to understand! I just want to help him! Why has all of this happened?"

"I cannot answer that," she said sadly. "I wish I could."

And again, this prompted a memory in the king. His expression became distant as words slithered across his mind. Holis had spoken them with a malicioius sneer that now seemed entirely indicative of his foul plot.  _"I cannot answer this question… But I know of one who could."_

"The prisoners," Aragorn murmured. And then he was moving, stepping around the bed with the energy of one possessed. He grasped his wife's slender arms and pulled her close. His eyes were wild. "Stay with Legolas, my love."

He released her and turned, ignoring her flabbergasted expression and confused stare. "Where are you going?" she asked, shaking her head.

"To find some answers!" She opened her mouth to speak further, but the door slammed shut, and her husband was gone.


	33. A Dangerous Pastime

Inexplicably it was making some sort of strange sense to him. As he raced and ran through the maze of stone corridors and darkening halls towards the dungeons, his thoughts stampeded through his head with the same thundering import as his pounding feet. He barely avoided servants and guards, not pausing to mutter an apology when an encounter proved too close. His eyes were narrowed but not upon his path. His feet carried him of their own accord, and he was vaguely glad for their independence, for his conscious spirit had been whisked into a maelstrom of startling epiphany.

Aragorn never counted himself overly keen or astoundingly astute, yet with every breath and step he was becoming more certain he had uncovered something. Something about the strange and disturbing conversation with Legolas a few minutes past had set his mind twisting in such a way, and he was confident that an important piece of this puzzle was just beyond his reaching fingers. The event with the Elf seemed utterly irrational. One minute Legolas had been pleading with Aragorn to end his life, to release him from this suffering. It was the logical conclusion to assume the prince had meant the torture of this  _thral-gûl_ , especially considering Legolas had tried to kill himself earlier. But Aragorn was beginning to doubt that assertion. All of that aside, a blink and a breath had passed, and suddenly Legolas had seemingly transformed into a mad monster, threatening death and punishment for wrongs committed against him. Although it hurt Aragorn a great deal to consider that such talk had not been merely the manifestation of an insane mind, he knew he needed to do just that. Somehow this grotesque idea had popped into his head, and for all the want of his hurting heart, he could not expel it for its ugliness. He knew it was true. He knew it was right.

Revenge. Rage. Holis had been right. It would always come back to this.

The fact of it was that he was becoming increasingly aware that the  _thral-gûl_  had done more than simply "lock" Legolas' soul inside him as Faramir had supposed. It had  _hewn_  it in two. Two spirits trapped inside one body. Holis had never put upon him some will of evil, some black inkling of a dark and dreadful purpose. Legolas had never been given some mission to kill the King of Gondor. Perhaps Holis thought he had been successful in imprinting this task upon the beaten Elf, but he had not. The driving force behind Legolas' attack of Aragorn had not been some explicit command. It had been hate. What had the man said?  _"The heinous fact of the_ thral-gûl  _alone was enough to deprive you of any will but that of vengeance."_  Holis had spoke truer than he had realized.

He thought back to that horrid day when the Elf had been returned to him. Though the memory burned him, he clearly recalled what Elrohir had proposed.  _"It was as though all the emotional restraints morality places upon a warrior had suddenly vanished."_  The idea had merit, merit that the king had before not seen. Two pieces of one spirit. One was hurting, violent, deprived of the tempering chains of love and compassion. The warrior unbound. The murderer unabashed and unrepressed. Aragorn was a fighter above anything else. He had participated in many battles and killed many creatures, man and Orc alike. He was well acquainted with the feel of a sword passing through a gut, with the sticky warmth of blood, of the rush of total victory. He had looked into his opponent's eyes and watched the glow of life fade from them with a certain measure of satisfaction. It was natural, after all, to be proud that one lived while another died, that one won when another lost. This was the penance of a warrior, the struggle always with the monster made possible by blood and sweat and swords. Yet these things were typically silenced by greater powers: love, civility, duty, compassion. These were the defenses a soldier maintained to keep the insanity and carnage of a battle away from his spirit. Perhaps war called upon one to act a monster, but that monster was constantly kept tamed and guided by the stronger half of a warrior's spirit.

To say these things were not constantly at odds would be quite the lie. Rarely could compassion and probity protect a body upon the battlefield. In fact, these were more often deterrents, as the enemy rarely honored integrity. Yet, in the inner war, the spirit bound to the life outside the sword and the blood and death was always stronger. The darkness within was beaten down naturally and subconsciously. The monster was subdued and never emerged.

The division was what separated the lawful from the criminal. The sane from the insane.

" _They have taken him from us. They have taken him from himself."_

That was exactly what Holis had done. He had taken the part of Legolas that loved life and cherished his friends and duties and left only the monster. And that monster had been fueled, fueled by betrayal and weakness and beatings and rape. The pain from a blow struck in battle was only incentive to strike back harder. To avenge the torn flesh and the hurting limb. This was no different. Legolas had been hurt, and he was exacting his vengeance on a most primitive and animalistic level. There was no loving spirit, no good will or body of light holding him back. Holis had split him and trapped the happy, caring Legolas they knew and loved from the Legolas that was deadly and dangerous.

And this logic sufficiently explained why the Elf had raised his hand against his friends.

" _I will kill you for what you have done to me! Monster! I will kill you!"_

The king flinched. Legolas had sought to kill Aragorn because he had hurt him. Betrayed him with doubt, with misgivings, turned him away in his darkest hour and dismissed his torment as fallacy. He had attacked Faramir because the steward had let him go on the battlefield, and it was because of that terrible accident, that horrible instance of weakness, that the Elf had been tortured and violated. And he had attacked himself because…

Why?

And were those slights truly enough to drive Legolas to such violence?

Aragorn grunted in frustration as he pulled open a heavy oaken door. The slab slammed against the back wall and the sound of the impact echoed loudly through the empty hallway. This fact he could not discern. Why had Legolas attempted suicide? The simplistic drive to murder and strike back when hurt had been done was predicated upon an even more simplistic wish: to preserve the self. Vengeance rarely turned about and focused upon the avenger. It made little sense, and this bothered Aragorn greatly. As he quickly made his way down the black staircases leading to the vaults below, he wondered if it was not the demon who struck that particular blow, but the prince himself. Obviously Legolas' "good" spirit was not dead. Aragorn could not fathom the sort of prison the  _thral-gûl_  was using to maintain a strong and vibrant soul in perpetual stasis. When his friend had pleaded with him to take his life… that had been  _Legolas_  talking, not the demon borne from this dark magic. Was Legolas aware of what his body was doing? On some level, he had to have been. There was no other way to account for his suicide attempt. But his imploration for Aragorn to kill him… that felt  _different_  somehow. There had been a certain dazed glimmer in Legolas' eyes. He had recognized Aragorn, but he had not recognized the time or the situation.

_How would I trap an Elf's light?_

Holis had mentioned in the beginning that the entirety of the  _thral-gûl_  was based upon an illusion, a dream of death.

_Is Legolas dreaming?_

It did not seem inconceivable. For the last days the Elf had writhed and whimpered as though caught in some inescapable, unending nightmare.

_But what is he dreaming? And how can we show him it is not real?_

Aragorn gritted his teeth, growing greatly vexed by the enigma. He forced his racing thoughts to slow and properly consider the quandary.  _The dream would have to seem perfectly possible. He would not be able to doubt it. He would have to fear it even. Think!_  How had they lost Legolas? The answer to that was clear: in the midst of a chaotic and violent battle. Surely he had not dreamt being captured, for Aragorn had to have been a part of the illusion for Legolas to plead with him as he had. What, then? What would be contiguous with Legolas' world before he was captured?

He was sick.

_Poison._

Aragorn stopped, his body tingling and his heart rushing. His jaw fell open slightly, and his eyes widened. Blood pumped loudly in his ears. The world closed down about him in a whoosh of air.  _Of course! How could I have not seen this before?_

They had assumed the toxin Velathir had administered to Legolas had been meant to simply weaken the prince so that he would fall in the battle. Truly, it had, but what if it had had another purpose as well? Legolas' senses would have been dulled, and his mind would have been sundered by both delirium and the horrific dream. When he had lost consciousness, waking to find himself poisoned and dying would have been a terribly plausible outcome.  _Gimli said he fell from Arod. He could have dreamt regaining consciousness here in Minas Tirith, trapped in a perverted nightmare, and he would have been none the wiser._  The poison would have become a sick sort of anchor, a line that connected the two realities and bled Legolas' dream seamlessly into his perception of the truth. The Elf had been sick for days, tormented by insomnia and hindered by aging wounds. His delirium would have only aided in perpetuating a damning falsehood.

Of course, Aragorn could not be certain of the nature of this dream. As he began to walk again, though, some things became achingly apparent to him. In the nightmare, Legolas had to have been wounded. Poisoned again, perhaps? And his death would have been something he was too afraid to question.  _A slow, horrid death, separated from his kin,_  Aragorn thought sadly. He grimaced.  _A death without dignity._  Elves were not meant to languish in the twilight between this world and the next. During a lull at the Battle of Helm's Deep, Legolas and Aragorn had sat together for an hour, taking a brief respite as the forces of Rohan barricaded themselves inside the fort. They had not spoken much, both weary and troubled. When Aragorn had told Legolas of the death of Haldir of Lórien, he had done so with a heavy heart, knowing the prince had been a friend of the warden for some years. Legolas had reacted stoically, though Aragorn knew him well enough to detect the signs of grief that others might miss. The Elf had said only one thing to the news, his eyes narrowed, his nimble fingers tracing the engraving on his great bow, his gift from the Galadhrim.  _"Then he has died an honorable death. A warrior can ask for nothing more. I will remember him in glory."_  They had been silent after that, taking comfort in each other's presence when the cold night offered naught.

Legolas was a proud creature. His pride was his undoing. He would have been terrified of a long, gruesome death, of a suffering demise. It would have crushed him.  _And it has._  Tears filled Aragorn's eyes.  _Oh, Legolas. I know not what you have dreamt of me, but I would not have let you die! I would not have killed you! My hands would never stain themselves in your blood. Not your blood._

So the dream was of a slow, agonizing death. Now, how could they convince him it was not real? Only doing that could free his spirit from the prison of the  _thral-gûl_ , and only through that could they kill the monster that had assumed control of the Elf's body.  _How can we reach him?_

He did not know if any of the prisoners could answer that question, but he had to try. There was nothing else left.

"My Lord!" The guard at the entrance to the dungeons leapt to his father before bowing shortly. "I – I did not know you were coming!"

Aragorn brushed aside the man's stammering. He did not have the patience for it. "Take me to see the Elf," he demanded sharply.

The guard's eyes widened. "Right away, my Liege!" A moment later they were walking down the narrow, dark hallways. The blackness swirled and swept around them, eagerly seeking to caress and control. It was pushed back by only the torch of the guard and the burning sconces on the wall of the corridor. Aragorn's body was tense in dark anticipation. Finally, they reached the right cell, one amongst many in a long row. "It is this one, sire," the guard declared, gesturing to the shadowy area before him.

Aragorn peered inside. The black abyss swallowed everything, and he could perceive little beyond the iron bars of the door. "Velathir!" he called loudly. His strong, stern voice echoed down the long hallway. There was a slight intake of breath, betraying that the Elf did indeed hide in the sable folds. Aragorn stepped closer. "Velathir, you will talk to me now. If you care at all for your lord, for the master you have betrayed, you will tell me what you know."

Silence. Then the sound of shifting feet, of rustling cloth. "I have told you all I know, King Elessar."

"That is not acceptable!" Aragorn snapped. The incense in his voice bothered him, and he struggled to control his temper. Taking a deep breath, he softened his tone. "We know about the pendant." There was no answer. The tense emptiness was suffocating. "We know you gave it to the child, Fethra. You cannot tell me you were blind to its intent."

A soft breath. "I did not wish to see." The answer was meek, and it only further tested Aragorn's composure.

"Do you know what you have done to Prince Legolas?" he asked coolly, cruelly. "Unwitting or no, you were a vital instrument in his downfall. If you seek absolution at all, you will help me now. You have destroyed your own kin. With such a stain upon you, you will never enter Valinor." Again, there was no response, but Aragorn knew his words were striking a sensitive point. "Neither will Mandos accept you. Thus, I suggest you speak. Perhaps leniency can yet come to you."

A heavier sigh. Then soft footsteps. Velathir appeared at the door to the cell. His dark hair was mussed and his face was pale. He seemed small and lost. Pitiful. Dark eyes glimmered brightly with unshed tears. "I would help you, but I fear I cannot. I truly did not know what he intended. He only wished that I take the pendant to a child in Cair Andros some months before the attack. I was… vexed by Lord Legolas' wish to stay in Middle Earth, and I did not question the means by which the Emperor promised to influence him to leave."

 _You did not question! You trusted him blindly!_  But Aragorn's fury was dampened by guilt, for, in truth, he had done much the same. Holis was blessed with great and subtle powers of persuasion, it seemed. "Did he specify which child?" he asked.

Velathir sadly shook his head. "Nay, my Lord. He only stressed that the youth be vulnerable. With a bit of investigation, I chose the girl. I gave to her mother the trinket, said it belonged to the girl's father, and then took my leave."

"And there was nothing more?"

"No, there was not."

"Did you know what it did?" Aragorn asked.

"No, I did not."

Aragorn sighed, growing frustrated. "And you did not think to ask?" But Velathir did not respond to his harsh inquiry, his face ashamed and apologetic. The king grunted and looked down. Anger coursed through him, but he knew submitting to it would earn him nothing save misery. Thus, he pushed it aside and calmed himself. "Is there anything at all? Anything the Emperor said in passing? About the poison? His plot? Anything?"

Velathir sighed again, his shoulders sagging. "Forgive me, Elessar, for I would aid you if I could. But I know nothing beyond what I was ordered to do. It was not my place to question." He averted his eyes shamefully. "I am sorry. I did not wish to know. I did not wish to burden myself with what might come of this."

Those words were enough to smash down the dam Aragorn had erected about his rage. He stepped close to the bars. "With what might come of this? You do not know, do you! You do not know what you have done! You are nothing more than a pawn," he hissed spitefully. His glare made Velathir quiver. "You betrayed your making. Knowingly or not, you have acted to bring down a nation and destroy a friend. Legolas is gone from us. Do you understand?" Velathir grew whiter still in grief and fear. " _Gone._  I cannot bring him back! His death will crush you. Tell me, traitor, was this worth your purity? Your innocence? Was morality not a great enough defense against impatience?" Vaguely the king knew this was accomplishing nothing. The needling voice of his conscience eventually broke through the hold of his anger, and he looked away. "You are worthless, Velathir. You were a pawn to them, and now you are worthless to me."

For a long while, neither king nor Elf moved. The shadows crept closer, ever anxious to augment torment with the heavy burdens of darkness. Then Aragorn released a long, hot breath and turned away, spite, grief, and disappointment stabbing into him until he could not breathe.

"There is often worth, my Lord, in the most unlikely places."

Aragorn stopped. His gooseflesh prickled, and he pivoted. For a moment he thought Velathir had again spoken, but then he realized the voice had been too low and too smooth to be that of the meek Elf. Velathir looked as surprised as he felt. Both remained still a moment. Then the voice came again.

"Over here, my King."

The call originated from the cell to his left. Aragorn stepped, his boots scraping loudly against the stone floor. Curiously he approached, his heart suddenly pounding madly in his chest. "Who are you?" he called.

The meager light betrayed nothing of the presence within the cell. The guard moved the torch closer, but the yellow illumination barely pierced the shadow. "A sympathetic mind," came the cool answer. An amused grunt followed that. "Or, at least, I have become one of late."

Aragorn stopped. "You were taken at Emyn Arnen," he said slowly, watching the dark veil intently. It disturbed him to be addressing a person he could not see. "You served the Emperor."

"Surely we not need address the obvious." Aragorn stiffened slightly, but his annoyance was vastly outweighed by his interest. They were silent a moment, the king wondering what to say or do next. He opened his mouth to ask the most pressing of his questions, but before he could the man interrupted him. "Do not bother, Elessar. I know naught of your Elf. I know naught of what was done to him, and even less about how to undo it. I know only that it was done."

"How?" Aragorn asked, though his innards twisted in revulsion and apprehension.

"Men seek pleasure, my Lord. I did not find mine in him, but I was not blind." Fury hotter than the brightest fire burst through Aragorn. This man… he had witnessed the men torture and rape Legolas, and he had done  _nothing_ _!_  "I can see from your face that immediately you perceive me to be nothing more than a monster. The revulsion in your eyes, the tightening of your jaw, the way you breathe shortly… You consider me as guilty as those who destroyed him. Do not assume that I cared nothing for the Elf's plight. You forget, my Lord, that not every nation values thought and freedom as yours does."

Something about that logic cooled Aragorn's anger. This was obviously no simple soldier. He could not afford to ruin this with brash judgments and heated emotions. He stared hard into the darkness, but still he could see nothing. "You said you had something of value to tell me," the king declared evenly, steeling his voice and expression.

"Yes," answered the shadows, "I do."

The next question was obvious. "What reason do I have to trust you?"

"Admittedly, little," the man responded. "However, considering your situation, I believe it is in your best interest to operate upon faith. I have information that could veritably change the course of this war."

Aragorn's heart stopped and a warm rush spread over his body. Despite the excitement rapidly dominating his thoughts, he remained reasonably doubtful. He felt as though he was squaring off with an especially cunning opponent in a card game. He did not know what information this man held, but he needed to loose that information without betraying his desperation for it. So he said nothing, letting the wary silence indicate his reservation and forcing the other to make the first move. Thankfully, the blackness before him obliged his unspoken desire. "Have you not wondered  _how_  the Emperor still boasts such a grand army?"

The warm wave turned cold, and the hairs on the back of Aragorn's neck rose. The world closed about him, and every word emanating from the shadows was a clap of thunder. "He lost men in his 'civil war', in his trap at Emyn Nimsîr, at Emyn Arnen… Granted the Easterlings have recently  _joined_  him, but they too were struck hard in the previous engagements. And now he rests here, in your Pelennor Fields, ten thousand strong. Does that not strike you as odd?" The king did not answer. He could not find his voice. "Of course, it does. Surely you realize that an army of this size could not exist after the War of the Ring. We lost, and you won. Though not always a necessity of defeat, we did indeed suffer greatly in that final battle. It is implausible that the Emperor could amass such a grand force. And, even if he could, how has it escaped your spies and intelligence officers?"

It was the question that had plagued them since the beginning of this disaster. "We had considered that," Aragorn declared, his voice soft with the struggle to maintain equanimity.

"Then you will be pleased to know you did not ponder it in vain. You were quite right. Such a force could not be so easily created. Harad is in shambles, and it has been even before Sauron fell. The point of this, my King, should now be obvious to you." The voice dropped to a whisper, one that sent chills racing up and down Aragorn's spine. "There is  _no_  army."

For a moment the words hung on the air. Then Aragorn brushed them aside. Ridiculous! "I do not have time for jokes and flippancy," he declared hotly, making to turn away.

A hand shot forth from the shadows and grabbed his arm. He ripped about, shocked, his eyes falling to the pale, dirty fingers tightly gripping the cloth of his tunic. "You dismiss me too quickly, my Lord. I know you are not so blind or brash. You must be a man of some value for the Emperor to consider you a worthy adversary."

"He considers me nothing of the sort," Aragorn snapped shortly.

"Oh, yes he does. The Emperor wastes time upon no one. If he did not think you a challenge to defeat, he would never have attacked," he insisted. Disgusted, Aragorn began to turn away once more, but the grip on his tunic grew tighter and more insistent. "Do not turn away from me, Elessar! You will condemn yourself if you do!" The words resonated inside Aragorn, shattering his irritation. He turned slowly, drawing a deep breath to settle his riled nerves. The thin hand released him. "Afford me a measure of trust, my Lord. I do not intend to deceive you."

"You will permit me my hesitation," responded Aragorn coolly. "I have little reason to believe you. How am I to be certain this is not merely another of his schemes? That you were not planted here for me to find?"

"You cannot be," the man answered. "It is merely my hope that you can still see beyond your hate."

Aragorn released a slow breath. Surely listening would not harm him. Something about this felt safe, secure enough that his doubts began to dissipate. Desperation was enough to silence his misgivings. "How can what you say be true?" he asked incredulously. "You have not seen it. It stretches a vast distance across the plains! A lie it cannot be."

"And there you are mistaken," the voice answered curtly. "It was his plan all the long to deceive you into submitting to defeat. His entire war was predicated on his duplicity. Will you now doubt the lengths to which he will go to perpetuate his illusion?"

Aragorn shook his head and asked, exasperated, "And what illusion is that?"

There was a pause. "That he is a god."

The king grunted hotly and looked away, folding his arms across his chest. Only after a period of quiet did his mind manage a grasp upon what this enigmatic man was trying to tell him. "You mean to tell me that the grand army waiting outside my city is nothing more than a lie? How is he doing such a thing?"

The creature in the shadows offered a bit of a chuckle. "Deceit knows no lows, my Lord. The bulk of his army, distant and thus hazy to your eyes, is little more than rows and rows of empty suits of armor propped upward into the shapes of men." Aragorn's eyes widened. The man laughed louder this time. "Does that surprise you? It should not. For a man whose weapons are fear and intimidation, any instrument to instill either in his enemies is not forsaken. Yes, King Elessar, the army that threatens you is composed of battalions of puppets, of empty plate and loose weapons. It is not ten thousand strong. It is not even half that. A third, perhaps. Perhaps less. I was not permitted the final assessment before the assault on Emyn Arnen."

Aragorn's heart was thundering, and his face flushed with heat. His mind struggled to understand this information. Could this be true? Giddy excitement burst through him, and his limbs felt weak. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked softly.

The man did not answer immediately. Then he shifted behind the veil of shadow. Aragorn felt him smile. "An act of self-preservation, if you will," he explained. "War is quite the dangerous pastime. The Emperor is an ambitious man, and as such, he cares for nothing beyond his own conquests. He will slaughter, maim, and destroy to attain what he wishes. He will use those with him and those against him. Servitude requires at least a promise of compensation. He thinks himself a god, and gods are not required to worry themselves with little matters such as loyalty and fairness. By a definition, a king is greater than his nation. So is a god with his people.

"But he is not a god. He is only a man. And like all men driven by ambition, he will fall. Such a thing is not meant to last." A sigh. "And when that time comes, I would much prefer to have your amnesty rather than your animosity."

 _Treachery abounds, it seems,_  Aragorn mused darkly. Still, a part of him was grimly satisfied with this betrayal of Holis. It seemed a blow struck to him, and Aragorn reveled in it. The king stood taller, raising his chin slightly, bolstered by this news. Nothing had changed, really. Ten thousand or three thousand meant little; Gondor did not have enough men to counter even a diminished force. But this silly fact empowered him. Gloriously it swept over him, leaving him warm and tingling with newfound strength and hope. Another facet of Holis' strength had been torn away, revealing the liar beneath. If his drama, if his  _illusion_ , was his weapon, stripping it of its veracity in turn stripped the emperor of his strength.  _He is only a man._  Aragorn released a slow breath. "And in return for this information," he began, "what do you expect of me?"

Another brief pause. Then the voice slithered from the shadows. "I ask for nothing. I expect you will properly vindicate me when the time permits. You are a man of honor, Elessar, and compassion. It is these things the Emperor uses against you. But these things are not easily destroyed. And when this is over, I trust you will remember those who helped you along the road." The man gave a grunt of satisfied laughter. Aragorn found this entire matter utterly stupendous. "I shall enjoy seeing the Emperor fall. A dangerous pastime, war. A dangerous pastime indeed."

The king could see nothing, but he knew the man had returned to the rear of the cell. He remained there a moment longer, wondering at the queer encounter. He was inclined to doubt, but inexplicably he would not allow himself to. This was real. This was right. The warmth returned, spreading through him pleasantly, and the corners of his mouth turned upward slightly in a small, bitter smile. With every moment, with every discovery, the chinks in Holis' armor grew larger and more apparent. The pendant. The poison. The ploy.  _Shall we strike?_  he wondered.

_Yes, I think we shall._


	34. No Mighty Conquest

"Is he awake?" Aragorn's soft question was sufficient to draw his wife's attention. Arwen turned, rising immediately from a plush chair slightly aside from the bed. She walked briskly to him, and her eyes shone in worry. Aragorn hated seeing her this rattled and disturbed. She had borne fear under her stoic, calm mask for months, and he had not as yet grown acclimated to the tiny lines of concern about her eyes, or the thin press of her lips, or the swirl of fear and grief in her eyes. He missed her smile. He missed it terribly.

"Somewhat, my husband," Arwen responded. Her tone was hushed and tranquil, but Aragorn knew her so intimately as to detect the weaknesses that others always missed. She was afraid. In all the long years he had known her, rarely had he seen her frightened of anything. She possessed a soul that stood firm and bright in the face of the darkest shadows, endowed with her father's strength and her mother's determination. She did not idly express doubt. To see her now so shaken stabbed into Aragorn's heart a poisonous reminder of how desperate he had allowed this situation to become.

Aragorn glanced to the bed, looking over Arwen's shoulder. Faramir was unmoving upon it, swathed in thick blankets to combat the chill. The man seemed small and pale beneath the quilts. He was very still, and Aragorn found himself holding his breath expectantly as he watched intensely for the rise and fall of his steward's chest. Thankfully, it did so yet, though slow and labored. The roaring fire in the hearth bathed the bed in golden heat and set Faramir's lax face aglow. He seemed worriless, fearless mayhap. Between sleep and awareness. Despite the ghost of the horrible attack pricking at him, Aragorn still envied Faramir this respite. Peace was gone from him, and he did not know if he could ever reclaim it.

Éowyn sat beside the bed. Her slim shoulders stiffened as her husband moaned weakly. From this vantage, Aragorn could not see her face. Her hands were still red and chapped, though, as she stroked Faramir's limp fingers. The king's heart thudded painfully, and his chest constricted. Guilt pounded through him. As irrational as it was, he could not shake it aside. Legolas had stabbed Faramir, but the man's blood was not on the Elf's hands alone.

"You wish to speak with him," Arwen whispered, drawing his attention. Aragorn looked to his wife, struggling to compose himself. Arwen was apologetic, crestfallen. She was not questioning his intentions. He knew the glint in her deeply blue eyes. She was merely protecting her patient. "He is weak, Estel," she said in Sindarin, most likely for Éowyn's benefit. "He needs rest, and stress and fear will only make worse his condition."

He opened his mouth to contest her assertions, but he knew she was right. Faramir's condition was precarious, and slumber and proper care were essential to his recovery. The wound had been deep, and he had bled profusely. He needed sleep above all else, and filling his head with concerns and fears that would distract him would do him harm. Truthfully, Aragorn was not entirely sure why he had come to speak with his steward. He did not need Faramir's consent to believe in the timely information provided by the mysterious prisoner. In fact, he had decided to go through with their plan, to strike now when they could, and he had done so without Faramir's input. It did not, however, feel right for him to engage in this without his friend's knowledge. When all selfishness and anger disappeared, the fact of it was that this plot belonged to Faramir. It was product of the steward's cunning and intelligence. Aragorn could not simply assume a role not meant for him. He wanted Faramir's approval. He needed Faramir's strength.

But he did not have the opportunity to argue. A sound came from the bed. "Aragorn?" Faramir's eyes were opened to watery slits of weariness and pain, tiny creases of agony surrounding the darkened orbs. Sweat covered the man's brow, glistening in the meager light, and his damp hair clung to his flushed face. Dry lips were moistened before Faramir spoke again. "My King…"

The last of Aragorn's reservation dissipated in the blast of warm, nervous relief shooting through him. He made his way to the bed, stepping to the side opposite from Éowyn's now alert form. His knees found the floor, and his rough hands sought those of his friend. "I am here, Faramir," he declared quietly, struggling to steady his voice. He was tired of its incessant shaking. He drew a deep breath into his lungs, forcing himself to appear strong. He would not burden his wounded friend with his weakness. He would burden him no longer.

Faramir's fingers were clammy and sticky with sweat as they tightened about his liege's. The man was very ill, but his eyes feverish gaze gleamed madly with determination. It was obviously costing him a great deal of energy to maintain this tenuous grasp on the waking world, and Aragorn admired his friend's will. Seeing Faramir's pain troubled him terribly, but he would not succumb to his guilt or sadness. There was too much to be done and not enough time. "Legolas, my Lord…" Faramir rasped, those wild, desperate eyes fixated on Aragorn. "Legolas…"

The steward's breath failed him. "Hush, my friend," Aragorn admonished softly, tightening his grip on Faramir's shaking hand. Faramir's eyes closed and he licked his lips again, struggling to fill his heaving body with air. "I know."

And he did. Though Faramir could not speak it, Aragorn inexplicably knew his friend had shared in his revelation about Legolas. Somehow, Faramir had come to realize the nature of the Elf's destruction, the heart of his torture, the machinations of his prison. The king supposed he should have expected no less. Faramir had been seemingly aware of so much more than he since this nightmare had begun. The steward had perceived the hints of danger, the whispers of doom, that he had ignored. And even in great pain, it seemed, Faramir understood the complexities of this enigma in ways Aragorn could not begin to fathom.  _You are so much wiser than I,_  he thought sadly, fearfully.  _I do not know if I can do this without you._

"Something… has happened," Faramir whispered, drawing Aragorn's attention once more. The king focused his weary gaze upon his wounded friend. Faramir's eyes shone brightly with agitated interest. The man struggled to push himself up slightly in the bed, but his efforts earned him hurt, and he slumped downward in defeat with a short cry.

"Faramir!" Éowyn gasped, leaning forward to steady her husband. Her pale face tightened in anger, her blue eyes flashing madly at Aragorn. "He is not well enough for this!" she snapped shortly, laying her hand across Faramir's brow, which was wrinkled in agony. The woman turned an icy glare upon Aragorn. "You have done enough to see him hurt. He can aid you no more."

The words were quiet, but their softness did not mask their venomous accusation. They cut into Aragorn sharply, drawing warm blood from his heart, but in the icy pit growing about his spirit the heat was lost like a breath to a winter's wind. Never before had he heard such grief or despair in the lady's voice. Though aloof at times, Éowyn was never cruel. She spoke with only grace and control, and she did not seek to lay blame when action might be taken to right a sour situation. She was strong, detached so often from emotion, cool and composed when others floundered. Seeing her so stricken hurt him more than her hurtful words. Everywhere, it seemed, were the signs he had before chosen not to see. The signs that his kingdom was falling. That his friends were suffering. He looked away from her, unwilling to let her see how much she had hurt him. Surely she did not believe he had intentionally shirked his duties or that he had wished such misery upon her husband!

Surely she would not blame Legolas for what he had done.

Aragorn shuddered inwardly at the thought. He was not certain that he himself would not blame Legolas. Nothing about this was rational. Nothing.

"Nay, Éowyn," Faramir managed, his voice a hiss of his breath through clenched teeth. The woman looked to him, her lips pulled thin in a frown, but she did not stop him from pushing away her restraining hold upon him. The steward's face was locked into a tight grimace. "I must…"

Éowyn released a short, hot breath and looked away. A moment later she was standing, her dress swishing against the side of the bed, and she turned from them. The pain radiating from her slight form was nearly tangible for its blackening strength. Aragorn's heart throbbed as the waves of her misery slammed against him, but he would not topple. This was his chance to reclaim what he had lost, and he would be damned if he let that slip away.

"I see it, Aragorn. In your face. Tell me."

Faramir's prompting drew the king's wayward attention, and following that the words fled from his mouth. No longer did he hesitate, and the excitement that had crawled into his belly earlier returned to fuel his lips and tongue and heart. His voice was soft, but it thrummed with anticipation, reverberating with a pleasantly enticing hum in his chest. The vibration shook him to his core, and as he revealed all he had learned in the dungeon, the pain was dulled and the tantalizing taste of victory returned to his dry mouth.

When he was finished, Faramir did not speak. The steward's eyes were shut. Faramir breathed evenly, his head turned slightly to the side, and for a moment the king feared his friend had slipped into the comfort of oblivion. "Faramir?"

"The time has come." Slowly his eyelids parted, revealing the gray eyes beneath. The storm within them had calmed, the clouds parting to reveal a flicker of light. That light symbolized hope, freedom, and resilience. Restoration promised in the gleaming of the sun. The corners of Faramir's lips rose in a small smile. "Do you see?" He released a slow breath. "Finally… the time has come."

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, squeezing Faramir's hand between his own. "You believe?" he asked tentatively, hopefully.

Faramir's eyes closed again, and he swallowed. "I have faith," he said, "that we have found our way."

"Then I will go," the king declared. "I will vanquish our enemies."

Faramir nodded weakly, his eyes teary though not from fear or sadness. He managed to return the king's grasp. "I have faith," he repeated, his raspy voice made strong by conviction. "We have come now to the end. I see it, Aragorn… Our path. I see it. I dream it." A smile twisted the steward's dry lips, and his eyes glazed with a contented remembrance. "When the world was drowning in blood, I fell… And I saw our city. The banners that where once white and pure were covered in crimson, and the blood dripped like tears, like scarlet drops of rain upon our people from skies filled with the lightning and thunder of war. The streets were empty of life, crowded instead by the dead. The nightmare spread before me, and I feared that was our path." The words were soft, spoken without hesitation or fear. It seemed a strange thing to hear such a horrid description unveiled in a tranquil tone. "But it is not to be, for then I turned from this gruesome perversion, and I saw the truth. Our city, proud and whole again. Our nation, as strong now as it was in the glory of the Elder Days. Our people, safe and secure. Our friends… And the rain was no longer blood, but clear specks of crystal and gold, drifting from the boughs of a great, pale tree. The dead rose, shaking from them the pall of this nightmare. All had come to an end, and we were free."

Aragorn felt tears slip down his face. He swept his thumbs over Faramir's hands, holding tightly to his friend. His voice came as a timid whisper, a wavering hope. "This you have seen?"

"Yes," Faramir responded. "There is no reason to be afraid now."

They did not speak again for a long time. Aragorn felt weightless, lost in the waves of this silence, the echoes of Faramir's words pushing him about like the currents of the sea might a lost boat. He wanted to believe that the steward was right, that they were indeed near the end, but he was still afraid. He was still afraid that the nightmare he had had so many days past would prove true, and Faramir's twisting of that foul dream into a glorious triumph would never come to pass. He was afraid hope would betray them again, that to boast confidence now would be the final blow to them all. Still, beneath the swirling mesh of doubt, grief, and fear, the tiniest bit of faith had sparked to life, catching upon his heart like an ember blown onto cold, damp wood. It would burst into a blaze, given enough time to smolder and feast upon his anger. To feast upon this dream that Faramir had offered. And then, when the flames were warming him with strength and courage, he would defeat the nightmare he had once had.

For the moment, he doubted still. "And what of your plan?" he asked, his quiet voice resounding in the emptiness. "Surely we cannot still make use of it." Faramir did not respond. His eyes had closed, and Aragorn grew concerned. The king squeezed his friend's hand, unwilling to be left so unsatisfied and uncertain. "Faramir?" he prodded.

The steward drew a weak breath. Relief flooded through Aragorn, followed shortly by shame as he felt Éowyn's accusatory glare settle on the back of his head. "I am with you," Faramir murmured. "I… You must take my place, my king. Take the arrow and wound him."

Aragorn shook his head. He had predicted Faramir would adapt his plot as such, and the alteration did not please him. "You are not well enough to engage in this, my friend. You cannot possibly gaze through the  _palantír_  and do as we discussed."

But Faramir was adamant. He shook his head slightly, the corner of his mouth tipping in what Aragorn imagined was a reassuring, knowing smile. "You worry too much," he chastised softly.

He had not expected such a comment, and inexplicably it warmed his spirit and lightened the gravity pushing them down. He smiled. "A strange thing to hear from you," he commented. His rough fingers came to wipe away the wetness on his cheeks. "Were it not for your conscience, I doubt I would have lasted as king as long as I have. You, who meticulously minds every proposal I make to the council. You, who watches my words and actions even when I will not. You, who bears the drudgery of kingship while I bear the glory, who smoothes over the torn edges I create between myself and the advisers I despise. You worry enough for us both, my friend. You always have."

Faramir chuckled and coughed hoarsely. "If not me, my Lord, then who? I am steward. Such is my life." Aragorn grinned sadly. The camaraderie hardly sated his hunger for solace. As welcomed as it was, it could not make better this situation. It was an empty distraction, and they both knew it. "Fear not. Go. When the moment comes, we shall be ready."

"You are not well, Faramir!" Aragorn declared, a harsh note creeping into his voice. "You cannot–"

"I will," Faramir announced firmly, opening his eyes wider. "My body is weak, but my will is strong. He will not stand against it. Name the hour, Aragorn, and we will be ready. It is time we strike him. He dreamt, and he made it reality. We have dreamt, and now we must make it our reality." The king opened his mouth to protest further, but Faramir, as injured and sick as he was, would not have it. "Worry not for us. Go and fight him. We stand beside you."

Aragorn sighed. He did not respond to Faramir's assertions, for truly he was torn. He knew his duty, but his heart was tethered to this place and his friends. His family. He was king, certainly, and a king's responsibility above all others was to his people. Within a matter of hours Holis would stampede into Minas Tirith, and his nation would be open to the sundering of his violent ambitions. If they did not act now, they would lose whatever advantage they had secured. And it had come to him. Legolas was gone. Faramir was gone. The brunt of this disaster had finally fallen solely to him. Stripped of his friends, he would have to face this alone, and he would have to act the part he had before shunned. He was king. If he did not fight for his people, nobody would.

There was nobody left.

 _You cannot stand beside me now. I have forfeited the many hours in which you did to grieving, and now I must face this alone._  He wondered idly if it was not meant to be this way. This was his test. He had conquered his share of obstacles in his life, rising above endless difficulties and seemingly insurmountable odds, but he had always done so with his friends and allies at his side. Gandalf, Legolas, Frodo, Faramir, Elrond and his sons… Arwen. There was no one now to aid him. This was not to say that he was utterly handicapped by solitude. The ones he loved remained with him still, but it was becoming increasingly clear to him that this was a battle he alone was meant to fight. Holis had not come for Gondor or for revenge or for Legolas, though Aragorn did not doubt such prizes were alluring to him. He had come to defeat Gondor's king, to destroy the hope of men and proclaim himself the best, brightest, and strongest. He had come to win and at any cost. He was a man of ambitions, and all ambitions ultimately led to the same objective: personal gain. Mayhap the emperor's convoluted plot was borne from a practical need. If that informant in the dungeon was correct, Harad could have never hoped to win an open war with Gondor. Subterfuge and deceit were, perhaps, its only means of victory, as Harad probably did not have an army large enough to contend with that of Gondor. Yet so much of it was excessive, just as Holis had said. Excessive and targeted at Aragorn's weaknesses. All that had happened to Legolas was testament. He had provoked Aragorn into this fight, cornering him like hunters did a wounded wolf. He had wanted a worthy adversary, an opponent to best and perhaps make real his ascension into divinity. Was Aragorn simply a means through which Holis could prove to himself his superiority? A challenge?

Legolas had been, in some perverted, disgusting way. And Faramir had been, too. Legolas had been a conquest of will. Faramir had been a conquest of intelligence. And Aragorn would be Holis' conquest of strength.

 _Is that what this is?_  Anger coursed through him, hot and hurtful.  _A fabricated quest for aggrandizing himself? For perpetuating the worth of his own existence? For validating these hollow ambitions with lofty ends?_  He narrowed his eyes, and his hands clenched tighter about Faramir's. He had taken Legolas and destroyed him, mind and body. He had defeated Faramir, twisting the keen steward into trading facts for fiction. And now he had stripped Aragorn of his friends and nation, leaving him to failure. He wished to dominate the king as he had the prince and the steward.  _If you wish for a fight, for a challenge, then I shall give you one!_

"Aragorn?"

Faramir's worried whisper drew him from his thoughts, and when he looked again to his friend, he felt nothing aside from cold resolution. He would question no more. "When first light strikes the White Tower on the morrow, I will let loose our weapon. And you must let loose our vision."

The steward said nothing to this, nodding only and opening his eyes wider. Aragorn was tempted to ask in the quiet moment that followed what Faramir intended to show Holis to entice the emperor to ignore the Gateway. However, it was probably best that he remained oblivious. Should he be captured, ignorance of the nature of the illusion would prevent him from unwittingly or unwillingly betraying their cause.

Aragorn shook his head to clear it. Sacrifices needed to be made, for nothing of any value came without its risk, without its price. Faramir was right; Holis would come for Legolas. If indeed this war of his was little more than a personal test, he would not stand to have his victory torn from him. Given the proper incentive, he would come.

Faramir groaned softly, turning his head to the side. Sweat bathed his pale face, and his eyes had closed to slits. At the sound of her husband's pain, Éowyn was at his side instantly. Her face was stern and angry, but her eyes glimmered with weak hope. Surely she had not understood much of the conversation they had just shared as she had not been privy to the steward's plan. But even she, so hurt and traumatized by Faramir's condition, could not deny the allure of the promise made between the two men. Even she was not blind to what this meant. "Please, he has had enough. He must rest."

Éowyn was right. Faramir was slipping into unawareness, fever bathing his face in a terrible flush. Aragorn watched his friend a moment more, wishing it had not come to this but knowing deep inside that it could not have ended in any other way. He squeezed Faramir's hands tightly between his own. "When again we meet," he began softly, "all will be well. The wind will be clean, and our standards will again fly high and proud. When again we meet, it will be over." He rose and leaned over the bed. He took Faramir's face in his hands. "I swear to you, I will make this right. I will amend the mistakes I have made. I will stop him, this I swear. I will not let our city fall." He pressed his lips to Faramir's brow. "Or our people fail."

Then he turned away. Éowyn stood behind him, her eyes watery and her face white. Aragorn lowered his eyes as he grasped the woman's thin arms. He kissed her cheek tenderly before pulling her slight frame into his arms. She was stiffly a moment before she succumbed to the warmth of his embrace and hugged him as well. "Thank you," he whispered.

She rested her head against his shoulder, her face contorted into a weeping grimace. "End this, Aragorn," she pleaded, her calm tone twisted with desperation. "Please, end this."

He squeezed her against him. "I will," he swore. And he meant it. Whole-heartedly and unabashedly. For the first time in months, he believed with all his heart. "I will."

* * *

Though the night was dark and heavy, Minas Tirith was alive and bustling. In the great courtyard outside the Citadel, a grand mass of men had gathered at the call of their king. They stood, packed into the large area, and a low hum of conversation buzzed in the silence of the late hours. This was, after all, a strange and exciting occurrence. This was the first time since the siege had begun that their leader was addressing them. Though the soldiers knew not what was about to be proposed, they were wise and alert enough to realize their liege was about to finally take action. That Elessar, the man who had restored their kingdom, had returned to them.

Aragorn himself stood just inside the Citadel, his steely eyes gazing out to hundreds of soldiers awaiting his appearance. Around him the candles seated in their metal sconces flickered, bathing the foyer in a golden illumination. The light glinted off of his plate mail, the metal shining brightly even in the blackness of night. A white tree was engraved into its breast, its curling limbs spreading over his torso like fingers seeking to wrap about his heart and protect him. The seven stars crowned the top of the branches. He swept a gloved hand over the smooth metal. How had he ever forgotten the strength in those simple symbols?

There was a grunt of greeting beside him. He did not need to turn to identify the newcomer. Aragorn heaved a gentle sigh, his hand dropped instinctively to rest upon the hilt of Andúril upon his hip. "Are you ready, Master Dwarf?"

Another grunt, this one deeper and a bit longer. They stood in silence for a moment before Gimli spoke. "You are certain of this?" he asked softly.

Aragorn was not entirely sure of what it was to which the stout warrior was referring, as there were many matters, many decisions, that warranted uncertainty. When he had met with Gimli a few hours ago, he had explained to the other what he thought about Legolas' condition, what he had learned from the prisoner, and what he had decided to do. Gimli's emotions had ranged from anger to grief to fear, but the most potent and pressing had been fury. Fury that they had again been played the fools by Holis' seemingly endless gall. Fury that Legolas' malady was so cruelly based upon a simple illusion. Gimli had a great heart, and he exuded strength and courage no matter the darkness about him. Still, he was not so willing to blindly trust that fate would restore to them their "dream", as Faramir had proposed. So much of this plan was predicated on the initial timing. Assuming that all went well, and when the sun lit the White Tower Aragorn managed to hit Holis with their special arrow and Faramir at that exact moment managed to send to him their "bait" (laughable, considering the steward's condition!), they could only hope the emperor would believe this vision to be truth. They could only believe that the man would abandon reinforcing the Gateway to attack the Citadel. And, even if all of these events happened in their favor, they still could only pray that the army would return!

If the army was still alive. And if it could return at all.

"Yes," he answered. "Quite."

Gimli was not the only one not entirely convinced. "My Liege," Irehadde said from Aragorn's right, "I must protest." The Dúnadan's dark eyes glittered with doubt and anger as he stared out into the courtyard. The large man's form was stiff, his shoulders squared with taut pride, but his gaze was laden with obvious concern. He lowered his voice. "I must speak frankly. I know not the true substance of this plan you and the steward have concocted. It seems a frivolous venture, one that accomplishes little aside from toying mindlessly with our enemy. I will dishonor you with no falsehood, my Lord; I do not trust Lord Faramir. He seems a melancholic creature, too fettered by thought to ever see past an enigma to its ends." Aragorn raised his chin slightly. He was annoyed by the comment, though he did not know why. The loss of love between Irehadde and Faramir was no secret, and the two often made their dislike for each other blatantly obvious. "However, I do trust you, my King, and I believe in your judgment. If you see worth in this act, then worth there must be."

These words were heartening, at least. Then Irehadde turned and grasped Aragorn by his shoulders. The Dúnadan's dark eyes locked upon Aragorn's. "But I must say that you partaking in this venture is folly! Another can do this, my Lord! Another can leave the protection of the Citadel and risk himself as you propose! You cannot be lost!"

Irehadde's words were not without logic, but Aragorn could not heed his concerns. He no longer had that latitude. "There is no one else," he declared evenly.  _No one else. He has seen to it. And now I will face him._

His adviser said nothing more. The king had made up his mind, and the Dúnadan was not so brazen or foolhardy to argue with him. Darkly he narrowed his eyes and looked out into the courtyard. Gimli grunted once more, shaking his head. The butt of his axe was braced on the floor, and he leaned onto the top. Aragorn could tell his friend was weary, though he knew Gimli would never openly admit to his fatigue. "The lads are waiting, Aragorn," the small creature declared. Then he looked up.

Aragorn met his gaze. He wanted to smile, but his taut lips could not form the gesture. Instead, he drew a deep breath and stepped out in to the night.

The shadows swept down to greet him, immediately sucking him deeply into their embraces, rendering him helpless to their whims. His eyes struggled to adjust, for the skies were clouded and the night was awfully dark. He felt lost in it for a brief moment, his heart pounding madly in his chest. The crowd hushed at his appearance. Hundreds of pairs of eyes were suddenly upon him, some wide with surprise, with fear or dread. Others were narrowed into an angry glare, frustrated and disappointed. Most were simply interested, and tied into this was an undeniable sense of hope. It hung over the crowd of guards and soldiers, this tenuous faith. No matter how they thought of him, seeing him rise again bolstered their resolve.

Aragorn smiled ruefully. "Behold your king," he called, his voice clear but trembling slightly. He sighed, his breath forming a puff of vapor before his lips, his tension leaving his body. "Your king," he muttered disdainfully, looking down. He paused then, and the silence of the crowd slammed into him. He shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment against the storm of emotion within him. He did not know what he wished to say. He did not know if there was anything he could say that might restore to them their faith in him. "I have not acted it of late. I have not protected you, led you, as I should have. I have not been your king. There is no excuse I can make for my actions. There is no…" His voice cracked under his teary shame. He jabbed his teeth into his lower lip. "…  _punishment_  fitting for such a transgression. There is nothing I can do to erase the past or make better the course of the war to this point. What is done is done, and we cannot change it.

"But I stand before you now, repentant and restored. I stand before you now, unafraid and unwavering. I stand at this moment, looking behind me at the path I have walked. I see the mistakes I have made. I see them! And I know them for their ugliness. The ruts and holes and twists in this road… I know each in lurid detail because it was  _I_  who failed to avoid them! And it was  _my_  ignorance that permitted my heart such callous control over my feet. These things I can no longer deny. It has come to me now, in this dark hour, a greater truth. These things I can no longer deny because I  _must_  not! Guilt would bind my hands and take the words from my lips and the thought from my mind, and I would wallow in this as our enemies press tighter about our gates! They would chain us to the past and slaughter us as we struggled! We cannot allow that to occur! We must forget the path we have walked, and remember that which still lies before us!"

The silence was deafening, and Aragorn's words resounded in the courtyard. Snow was beginning to fall, quietly descending upon the soldiers present. It seemed almost misplaced given the gravity of the situation. "We must because the front moves ever closer. Within a matter of hours, the enemy will surge into our city." A dismayed murmur arose then, many of the warriors present glancing at one another. Perhaps they had not known how desperate the situation was becoming. Perhaps they had simply chosen not to see it. Whatever the case, hearing those heavy, solemn words from their king removed any possibility that such a conclusion was borne from fear and pessimism. It denied them any ability to refute inevitable defeat.

Aragorn released a slow breath and looked out over what remained of his forces. "They will come. They will surmount the Gateway and open its walls, and they will flood through our streets like water rushing down a mountain. They will cut through what remains of our defenses, and the only thing that will stop them will be the last gate, the final blockade. That wall–" Aragorn pointed to the other end of the courtyard, where the high walls of the seventh gate were just visible. "–will be all that stands between them and us. We must defend it. We must! They will come here, violently, viciously, and we will be the last of their challenge! We must defend our home!"

Silence. Aragorn gritted his teeth. "They consider us a mighty conquest. They deem us merely another obstacle in a path towards ultimate domination. We cannot allow them that victory! They have stripped us of our friends, of our allies, of our very strength, but we will not be so easily defeated! We cannot be! We are not their trophy! We are not their victims!" Aragorn raised his head and his voice. His words came quickly, and as they rumbled in his chest and roared from his lips, a new sense of courage and purpose grew within him. "Stand with me, my friends, and I will lead us to the end of this road. And it will not carry us to destruction or oppression! That is not our fate! We will not bow to cruelty or terror! We will not be their mighty conquest!" His hand fell to his side, his fingers grasping the cold metal of Andúril's hilt. His sword came free from its sheath with an echoing ring, and he held the gleaming blade high above him. "This is not our time to hide in the shadows and submit to the rape of our nation! We are no weaklings! We are no cowards! Stand with me and hold them back! Stand with me and defend our keep!"

The men erupted into a loud, enthusiastic cheer.

"We are no mighty conquest!"

Like waves the roar of agreement spread over group. It resounded off of the walls, rushing over them in a blast of euphoric energy. Aragorn stood before them, his sword held aloft as the snow drifted downward. He had been afraid, afraid that he would not be able to gain again their support. They were exhausted, wearied in mind and body, and he could barely expect much more from them. Still, he could never hope to accomplish his mission without them. He needed these loyal men, however few, to defend the Citadel. When Holis came, he would do so with whatever forces he possessed. There was less ground here, and it was familiar. Though only a few hundred troops remained, it would have to be enough. Perhaps their high morale would be their greatest weapon.

It would have to be because it was all they had left.

The king lowered his blade, and the soldiers continued to salute him. Then, once the cheering quieted, the sound of barked orders rose over the din. The lieutenants and captains were beginning to delegate their men to the defense. Aragorn felt a great, nearly debilitating pulse of relief roll over his tired body, and for a moment he worried he might simply collapse. This was the first step. It felt wonderful to act again, to make a decision and feel the excitement of movement. To know his people were again behind him.

To know they were strong.

He came back to himself, and he slid Andúril back into its sheath. He turned, his cloak fluttering behind him, and stepped back into the light and warmth of the crowded entrance. There he was met with a mess of men, many cheering him with renewed vigor and trust, seeking to take his hand or receive but a brief look. The adoration they had for him felt precious and powerful, and he basked in it for this short moment. He had missed this. He had nearly sacrificed everything for the sake of his rage. He had been such a fool!

He broke through the throng of people and found Gimli waiting where he had left him. The stout warrior still leaned upon his axe, but his eyes had softened. They said nothing for a long moment as the entrance bustled with activity all around them, the two friends seemingly oblivious to the chaos of this late night. Then the corners of Gimli's mouth twisted into a bushy smirk. "A mighty conquest?" he said in jest. Aragorn blushed and chuckled. "Kingly words."

The ranger smiled. "Would you expect any less?"

"From you? Nay. You have always excelled at rallying men behind you. It was your calling." They were quiet then, knowing both the meaning of this moment. The gravity of its implications weighed down upon them, testing the stoic strength they often displayed for the sake of those they commanded. They would part now, the two that remained of the lords and warriors and leaders who had before gathered. The war had come home. "And so we stand," Gimli finally said. His eyes were guarded, but Aragorn knew him well enough to see past the courage and resilience to the hidden storm of emotions. Anger. Fear. Doubt. Grief. So much of this misery they had weathered together. To separate now seemed impossible. After all, even through the darkest hours of the War of the Ring, they had been together. The man, the Elf, and the Dwarf. There was no path one had walked without the others. There was no trial one had faced alone. That had been a journey they had taken together, from the beauty of Rivendell to the horror of the Black Gate, and Aragorn had not anticipated at the time the depth of the bonds between the three of them would grow during their quest. Each step towards their destinies had brought them closer together.

But Gimli was not meant to walk this road with him. The Dwarf lord was meant for a different task. Holis believing their hoax would mean little if the Dwarves could not open the Gateway. "You will know when?" Aragorn asked softly. "And you are certain you can find your way?"

"Aye," Gimli answered. He grinned humorlessly. "You need not worry about us. We are Dwarves. We can certainly navigate a few dark tunnels."

An awkward silence returned, uncomfortable and tense. Neither wanted to acknowledge any finality in the moment. This was merely another night, another task, another battle. It would not be the end. Gimli grasped his arm firmly, the Dwarf's gloved hand resting upon the king's bracer. "Be safe, Aragorn," he said softly. "Losing the Elf was hard enough. I could not bear to lose you as well." For a moment, tears appeared to glitter in the Dwarf's small, dark eyes. Then he blinked, and the shining wetness was gone.

Aragorn laid a comforting hand on the stout creature's shoulder. "Do not fear, friend Gimli. I have no intention of letting this monster defeat me." He struggled to find his calm. "May the Valar go with you."

"The Valar?" Gimli repeated incredulously. He huffed, making a show of his annoyance as he pulled from the king's grasp. "Only if they are willing to crawl through the slop of your city!" Then he turned, rushing off through the crowd to face his own fate. "Where is the glory in that?" he grumbled as he quickly stalked away. "Only Dwarves would be assigned such a foul task as to pick through refuse and muddy water while an honorable battle rages about them! I know not why I do this. Truly, I do not! The Elf would never even  _fathom_  of dirtying himself so…" Aragorn watched him go until he could no longer pick the rusty red hair and short stature from the mesh of the crowd. A slow smile came to Aragorn's lips.  _For Legolas, Gimli. I know you will do this for him._

"My King?" Aragorn turned at the call to find Beregond waiting behind him. The man appeared terribly exhausted, his face pale and slack, his eyes outlined in darkness. His shoulders slumped slightly with surely some measure of depression in addition to his fatigue. Aragorn's heart twisted at seeing the man's guilt so openly displayed in his dismayed expression. To again see his ward greatly wounded had bothered Beregond greatly. There had been nothing the Captain of the White Guard could have done to prevent Faramir's injury, but guilt, a familiar monster to Aragorn, was not so subservient to logic as they wished. When Aragorn settled his gaze upon the other's face, Beregond lifted his chin and donned a mask of stoicism. "Your orders, my Lord?"

Those words prompted Aragorn to act, remembering again that there was not much time. "The Citadel must be protected. Station whatever archers remain upon the gate and in the towers about the courtyard. Have the infantry form lines parallel to the entry path; as the Haradrim enter, we will strike them from each side. That will create a bottleneck situation, one they will not easily be able to surpass. Hopefully we will diminish their numbers."

"Yes, sir."

"Blockade the main entrances. Tables, chairs,  _anything_  that could fill those hallways!"

"You believe they will breach the seventh gate," Beregond said softly, skeptically. Aragorn did not answer immediately, clenching his jaw. The man sighed, his eyes closing briefly. Fear fractured his face as he shook his head. "Sweet Eru…"

Aragorn continued, turning and picking his way through the crowd assembled. "Take the women and wounded into the Tower, as far as possible from the invasion point. Fill the corridors with furniture and debris. You must slow them by any means necessary. Fall back only when a position proves indefensible."

Beregond had not yet recovered from his shock, and Aragorn was losing his patience. He could not be certain from the other's blank expression and glazed, hopeless stare that the captain had heard his orders. He grasped the man's shoulders and shook him sharply. "Do you understand me, Beregond? You must not abandon this post!" For a moment the captain was still. Then he seemed to break free from his daze and focus gain on his king. Aragorn swallowed his relief, holding the man's gaze firmly. "This is not the end. We will not fight in vain."

Beregond nodded, regaining his calm, and Aragorn released him. The man straightened his beaten form, the lines of his jaw firmly clenched into grim determination. "As you say, my King, so it shall be done. They will not take this place!"

Aragorn managed a small smile. "Good. I expect no less from you."

"Yes, sir!" With that, Beregond bowed stiffly and then left to begin preparations for their final resistance. Guilt gnawed at Aragorn briefly. Was it right for him to offer hope through exaggerations, optimism, and likely lies? Who had vested him with such a power? The ability to give faith as easily as he had taken it away… The strength of such trust was dizzying. Perhaps a king and a god were not so separate. Both could create and destroy. Both could manipulate and mold. Both hid behind the hands and bodies and blood of those that served them.

King against king, god against god. Eventually the armies would fall away, the land would fade, and the countries would disappear. That time would come. Of that Aragorn was certain. And when it did, Aragorn would alone face his nemesis. Good and evil, dark and light. Man and monster. It would be decided then.

The king turned then and began to walk from the area. Again, though, he made it not a few steps before an interruption. A few of the black-clad Citadel Guards stepped out of his way, and he came before Irehadde. For a moment the two men simply stared at each other. Aragorn had known the Dúnadan soldier for a great many years. Irehadde, as gruff and forbidding as he was, was one of the few men left alive who had known his father, Arathorn. Truthfully, Aragorn cared little for the man's demeanor. He was quite conceited and all too eager to prove himself the better of any Gondorian. But beneath this arrogance was a loyal heart that sought what was right and good. He was true to his vows and strong in battle. He had come from Arnor with Elladan and Elrohir during the War of the Ring, and when the Ring had been destroyed, he had decided to stay in Gondor and serve his new king as he had Arathorn in years past. Though Irehadde often made mundane matters difficult with his haughty refusal to submit to another's orders, Aragorn was glad for his presence.

At that moment, though, he dreaded facing another round of the man's disparaging arguments. Thus he was quite surprised at Irehadde's softened expression and quiet words. "You are right, my Lord," he murmured, his steady gaze never leaving the eyes of his king. "You are right. We must strike now. We must."

Aragorn breathed heavily through his nose, relieved. "Will you stand and defend this Citadel?" he asked.

"No," Irehadde declared. His tone was low. "But I will stand beside you." He released a long breath, the yellow light of the candles glinting in his eyes. "You are my charge. I will come with you."

To say he was not surprised by the proposition would not have been entirely true. He supposed he should have anticipated that at least one of his lords and advisers would wish to accompany him upon learning of his plans to attack Holis personally. Of those that remained, for Irehadde to volunteer himself was most plausible. He was a Dúnadan, not a Gondorian. He held a greater duty to Aragorn than he would ever hold to Minas Tirith. In the past, he had had no qualms with reminding those with whom he worked about that fact. He would certainly risk his life protecting his kin before he ever sacrificed himself for this country. Still, Aragorn was reluctant to agree. This was something he needed to face alone. This was something he  _wished_  to face alone.

"I will protect you," Irehadde declared, stepping closer to his liege.

Somehow that simple statement was enough to convince Aragorn of the value in Irehadde's idea. He nodded, feeling a bit of his fear and unease dissipating. "We leave within the hour," he announced.

"I will be ready," responded the man sternly.

Aragorn nodded.  _Ready? I doubt that is possible._  But he decided to think no more on this. There was too much to do to waste time on reservations.

* * *

An hour. Time had never escaped him so quickly. It had carelessly slipped from his fingers, grasping him and pulling him forward though he dug his feet into the ground. He did not want these moments to leave him. He did not want to face the path to which he was being dragged. His will wavered, though he repeated inside his head and heart that he had  _made_  this decision. Such a thing could not be reversed. Still, this resolution was good in theory but quite problematic to implement and maintain. This was not a decision beyond reversal. Many times as those torturous seconds had marched pompously away from him had he festered in misgivings. Perhaps this was not the best course. Perhaps this plan would not avail them. Perhaps he would better serve his nation by remaining in the Citadel to lead the defense.

But he knew this was not so. There was no turning back. This was right.

He had muddled through his final preparations. He had directed a bit of the evacuation efforts, helping to move the wounded to a safer location more interior. Then he had seen Legolas. The Elf had appeared to be resting comfortably under Ioreth's care, his face lax and his body limp in the restraints. Tears had threatened the king as he had knelt at his friend's side, his hands wrapped about the Legolas' cold, limp fingers. Elvish prayers had fled his lips momentarily, and he spent a great many moments silent. So many times in the past when the shadows had threatened had he stood in Legolas' presence, drawing comfort from the Elf's constant strength and silent power. Legolas, who never wavered, never showed his fear, never doubted himself or his friends. Legolas, his brother, the one who had always seen him for exactly what he was and loved him for that and that alone. Legolas was gone, and Aragorn missed him so terribly that his chest ached and throat burned. He had been gone before Emyn Nimîr or Cair Andros. That heinous poison had been stealing the Elf piece by piece for days, weeks, before they had even perceived the smallest hints of this nightmare.

No. Legolas had been fading ever since he had stood upon the shores of the Anduin and heard the crying gulls. Inexplicably, as he had sat there in the roar of the quiet holding his dear friend's hand, his mind drifted to thoughts best left avoided. The Undying Lands. The sea-longing. Legolas was young for an Elf, and he loved life with such a keen passion that only an acute suffering could rival that sensation and rip him from this world. Though he masked it well, Aragorn knew Legolas endured much for the sake of his mortal friends. It was not so severe to hinder him now, but the man was well aware that this was only the beginning. It would get worse with every day, every year, Legolas lingered. Inevitably he would be forced to leave.

It seemed a silly thing to consider something so utterly distant and seemingly irrelevant at that juncture, but Aragorn had not been able to help himself. He was tired and quite distraught, and his mind had wandered. As long as he had walked this earth he had done so with Legolas at his side. One day, that would end, and there was little he could do to stop or delay that. There was nothing so distinctly Elvish, so fundamentally true of their kind, as this final journey. They were not created to suffer, and they were not meant to remain in Middle Earth. Valinor called to them as clearly as the sea beckons its birds. It was as much a part of them as flesh or spirit, and it could not be denied. Not by mere men. Such a truth could never be altered.

Should Legolas somehow survive this, the agony and violation he had endured would surely drive him from this place. He would succumb to the calling within him. The sea would take him. The thought had driven despair deep into Aragorn's heart. Only with a great deal of will had he been able to wrench himself from his friend's bedside. He could not be fettered by these thoughts. He had kissed Legolas' brow, promised the Elf that all would be well, and then taken his leave. Had he remained longer, all the strength he had conjured to engage in this attack would have been crushed.

After that, he had returned to the meeting room to acquire their weapon. Nobody had entered the area since he and Gimli had rushed from it all those hours ago. The arrow had innocently remained upon the table, hidden in the blue swatch. He had wasted no time in taking it and placing it in his quiver. It was no longer worth his reverence or excitement. Those silly emotions had seemed proper and satisfying earlier. Now they were only shallow fancies that failed to make easier this burden. The arrow had felt heavy upon his person, weighted with a dark and dangerous purpose. No longer did it symbolize solely retribution and selfish gratification. Aragorn was not so strong as to completely disregard these feelings, but grander than them now was a calm, grim understanding. This plan was no longer simply about vengeance. He had climbed above that enough to realize such a goal would never award him with victory. Perhaps he might succeed, but it would be tainted. And in the end, he would only prove Holis correct: rage would be his weakness as well as his strength. In truth, that would be no triumph at all.

Urgency had beat through his heart as he made his way around the Citadel, and he had been terribly aware of time disappearing. Still, he had been unable to push his weary body into much more than a lethargic walk. All around him the Citadel had been rushing to prepare its defense. Tables and chairs, polished and pretty, were hauled unceremoniously from rooms, their shining surfaces becoming scraped and nicked as they banged into door frames and walls. These were used to fill the corridors, creating growing walls of debris that would slow the invaders. While the guards constructed these barricades, other servants helped the wounded move back to the inner areas of the structure. A steady stream of limping, panicked people had pushed through the congested corridors. Most had been solemn, accepting the frightful fact that this would be their last stand. The hallways had been filled with a hum of sound: shouting, scuffling, sobbing. Their world was coming to an end.

Aragorn had not been pleased with any of it, but it was beyond his ability to control. As he had walked those halls, trapped in a sort of forlorn daze, he found he could not remember a time when his home, when his nation, had been at peace. What sounds had echoed through these grand halls mere months ago? The maid's idle chatter? Laughter? Music? When the shadow had been gone, where had the light touched? Had there been a sense of contentment, of security? Even if they might win this fight, as unlikely as that seemed, pushing back the blackness seemed an impossible task. If they did so, would the world be uncovered as it was? Idealistic prattle. It could never be the same. This would scar his people forever. Like a festering wound morphing into a ragged scar, this moment would always mar them.

These dark thoughts were churning in his head as he reached the grand entrance to the Citadel. His feet carried him down the stairs swiftly, and the reverberating thud of his boots against the polished stone snapped him from his bitter reverie. He chastised himself.  _Enough of this! I need concentration now more than ever before. I cannot fail!_  Mentally he checked his equipment again, though it was foolish to bother. His sword. His bow and quiver. He knew from the familiar weight upon his back and hip that he was ready. He saw the open doors ahead, the light in the antechamber rendering the outside into a swirling abyss of impenetrable blackness and snow. He paused on the last step, drawing a sudden, deep breath. Once he stepped from those doors, he was committed. He could not turn back. Fear unleashed itself in a wild pang in his belly, and the cold wind rendered him static while the world blurred with motion all around him.

Now, in this most important of moments, he faltered.

"Estel?"

That soft, melodic voice drew his attention, and he looked down. Arwen stood there. Her large, blue eyes were watching him intently, worriedly. She had donned a heavy robe to cover her gown, and Aragorn noticed that quite a chill had seeped into the Citadel. Her pale face was placid, but he knew her so well. She was afraid. "You should not be here," he said softly. He stepped closer to her, laying hands upon her shoulders. "It is not safe."

"It is but a small risk," she answered.

They did not speak again. Gray eyes locked upon blue, a storm and the sea, chaos and calm. She glanced over his attire once, but Aragorn was quite certain she had perceived long ago his intentions. "You leave," she whispered. Though she masked it well, he heard the terror and sorrow in her tone. "You leave to face him."

He took her hands in his own, and lifted them against his chest. "I must," he responded. "It is my duty, the road  _I_  must walk."

He knew she would not argue with him. She was not so selfish, so untrusting, as to doubt his words. If this task was important to him, then surely it was important to the survival of Gondor. Even still, she suffered a great dilemma, a war of emotions within her. She knew as well that this was his test, that it had come to this inexplicably and no one was left to help carry this burden. She knew he was king, and as king, he would give his life for his country. That was his ultimate duty. But she was his wife, and she loved him without end, beyond any duty or station or destiny. He knew this quandary, because he suffered it as well. They would be parted now. As king, he would fight their enemies. As queen, she would protect their people. Love had little weight given those steep and undeniable responsibilities, and that left them both torn and yearning.

Such was the weight of leadership.

Yet knowing that fact did not make the hurt less or the grief insignificant.

Arwen bowed her head, the thick locks of her dark hair framing her beautiful face like sable curtains. "I know," she declared with a sigh. "But I do not wish it."

He did not sully the moment or belittle her feelings with a shallow commentary on the unfairness of life. She knew such things better than most. She had spent many years waiting, and when time had finally permitted her to choose, she had sacrificed everything for the sake of love. She understood well the cruelties of fate. She was stronger than him in most regards, and her strength in the face of matters unjust and hurtful was well beyond anything he could ever dream of emulating.

There was nothing to say to make this better or to change the way of things, so neither tried. Instead Aragorn drew her into his arms. He sighed, closing his eyes. "I am so frightened, my love." He squeezed her tightly. No matter how he tried, he could not keep from his mind the distressing thought that this would be the last time he held her. "I am afraid it will not be enough, that it is already too late, that I can do no good now–"

"And you would be a fool not to have those fears," Arwen reminded softly. She pulled back from his embrace, her soft, long fingers coming to cup his bearded face. "It is what makes you strong. They remind you of the price of failure, and that will tie you truer to victory than any ambition or dream. They keep you human. He boasts no such power." Aragorn sighed, resting his forehead upon hers. "And that is why you will defeat him."

The words heartened him. She was so strong, so pure, that often he felt low and inadequate in her presence. Often he had wondered what made him so fortunate as to be the one she loved. He did not deserve her faith, not after all the damage he had done these weeks past. But he was grateful for it all the same. War would come, ravage what it would, destroy and leave only desolation, but she would still love him. She would always believe in him.

He had forgotten what that felt like, too.

He leaned back to look into her eyes. "He will come here, Arwen," he whispered. "He will come inside our home. We cannot keep him out. You must take refuge. He cannot find you."

"He will not," she assured firmly. "Do not worry for me."

"And he must not find Legolas," Aragorn continued, his grip on her shoulders tight as though to press his panic into her. "He… he  _lusts_  after our friend. He will come here searching for Legolas, and what he might do to him horrifies me. Please, you must hide him. Take him someplace Holis cannot easily reach."

Arwen smiled grimly. "I will protect him, Estel. That monster will never touch him again."

It was too demanding to believe blindly in her promises, so he did not try. The thought of both Arwen and Legolas at Holis' mercy, subject to his cruel and sadistic whims, terrified him. Instead he swept her into his arms again, feasting his senses upon her and praying these lingering sensations would be enough to carry him through the darkness. Then he kissed her, passionately, powerfully. He never wanted to let her go, knowing this black world meant her harm, but he also knew that he must.

"I love you," he whispered, pouring his heart into the simple words.

She held to him tightly, wrapping her arms about his body. "I know. I love you, too."

He left then, because if he lingered longer, he would never be able to go.

Now he was outside, briskly walking through the dark, sweeping night. The snow was coming down quite heavily; already a blanket of white had covered the dead grass and stone. It was not untouched, marred by the falling of many feet. As the king reached the seventh gate, the number of footsteps decreased. The pandemonium of the Citadel faded away, the noise growing faint as he stepped through the gate without hesitation. This was his decision. He gave no more thought to it.

Irehadde was waiting on the other side of the gate. Though the night was terribly dark, Aragorn could see the other had donned plate mail. His sword was strapped to his side, but only the silver tip of the scabbard poked out from beneath his cloak. He seemed tense and angry. "The Gateway has fallen."

Aragorn stopped still. His heart ceased to beat.

"They have entered Minas Tirith."

Time had forsaken them, punishing him for his lassitude. His body tingled, a cold wind slicing into him. Those words rumbled through his stricken mind, echoing painfully in his skull.  _The Gateway has fallen. The Gateway has fallen!_

_They are inside the city!_

Then he released a slow breath. Regardless of whether or not they were ready, their plan had been set into motion.

"Let us go, then. We do not have much time."

Irehadde said nothing to this. His form, outlined in shadow, was taut with rage and violence. He seemed a wraith doused in stars, the snow settling upon his armor. Aragorn nodded to him once before turning and continuing to walk. He narrowed his eyes. Despite the lateness of the night, the city was very much alive. He could hear the sounds of distant battle, shouting, swords clanking, men crying. Louder than this was the flurry of activity outside the Houses of Healing. Those capable of walking and withstanding the cold were being slowly moved inside the Citadel. Many were too injured in the recent battles to be moved, and, as such, soldiers were setting to heightening the defense about the building. Servants were rushing about under the dim light of the street lanterns, the ladies lifting their skirts so as to not drag them through the snow as they carried rolls of linens, quilts, and baskets of herbs and vials. It was a desperate situation.

Aragorn looked only a moment before shrugging deeper into his cloak and continuing on his way. The sight was distressing, and it was a situation in which he had no want to become involved. Irehadde was beside him, clinking softly as he stepped. "The city is in chaos," he murmured disdainfully. The king was irked by the irate grumble, but he said nothing.

"King Elessar! King Elessar!"

The excited, breathless call stopped him, and he pivoted to look back at the golden blur that was the Houses. Two figures were running towards them. One was a lanky young man, sporting chain mail and leather studded plate. On his breast blazed the blue swan of Dol Amroth. Behind him ran a young girl, and she was not dressed for the weather, sporting only a red gown with the sleeves rolled backward and secured at her elbows. Her dark hair flew behind her. As they neared, Aragorn recognized them immediately as Amrothos and Lothíriel, Imrahil's youngest son and daughter.

The young man reached him and drew to a short stop. His face was flushed from his sprint, his rushed breath forming short puffs of vapor before his lips. His wide eyes regarded his king. "My Lord," he said, swallowing and struggling to catch his breath. "You go to attack them."

Aragorn nodded. "Please, sir!" Lothíriel was beside him now. She appeared to have abandoned something midtask to run out, most likely to chase her brother. "You must stop him! He is not well enough!"

Amrothos spoke again before Aragorn could even begin to form words. "Let me come with you," he implored, a pleading tone in his voice and a fiery light in his eyes. Aragorn found it slightly strange. He had known this boy as a quiet lad, standing silently at his father's side, somewhat shy. The king was surprised to see him now demanding that he be allowed to partake in this attack with all the gusto of a hardened warrior. He would not have expected it from Imrahil's youngest son.

He had also not expected Amrothos to take an arrow meant for him. Amrothos had strength, vibrant life, and great courage. He would become a fine lord.

Still, he was only a boy, and this was no training exercise or game. "This is dangerous, Amrothos," he said softly. "It is no place for–"

"Please, my King," Amrothos said. The young man dropped to one knee, bowing his head respectfully. "I – I know I should not put this upon you. I have greatly overstepped my bounds, Sire, and I am sorry. But,  _please_ , you must allow me to help you. My brother is dead, and my father may be lost." Aragorn stiffened. "If I do nothing, I disgrace the purpose for which they have sacrificed. I cannot fail them, my Lord. If I am to die, I want to die fighting."

He was tempted to send the boy back inside. He was tempted to save this life, to shield it from the horrors of war and allow it some innocence yet. But he knew he could not. This boy had been made a man, for he spoke a man's words, carried a man's sorrows, and welcomed a man's duties. He had no right to demand Amrothos stand aside when he himself would have done no differently if the roles were reversed. And he could not very well deny the lad his wish when he had already once given up his life for his king.

"There is no need," Aragorn said softly, "to kneel before me." Amrothos lifted his head and met the king's gaze, and he rose stiffly as though surprised. He swallowed uncomfortably. "Come, if you wish. I shall be honored to have your help, but I can make no guarantee we will succeed or that we will even survive."

"And I do not ask for one," Amrothos said firmly. Then he hastily and nervously added, "My King."

Aragorn nodded slowly. Then he stepped to Lothíriel. She shook her head, clearly unhappy with this turn of events. But she lifted her chin before her king, strong and pale, like a flower in a driving rain. The king pulled from his shoulders his cloak, and this he wrapped around the girl's shivering frame. He smiled. "Go to the Citadel," he said softly, "to the Queen. She will need your help. Be strong." He did not say more, but she understood what had been left unspoken.  _I will protect him._

Lothíriel nodded, drawing Aragorn's cloak tighter about himself. She curtsied and turned to her brother. She as well cast propriety aside and drew Amrothos into a tight hug. A few whispered words were shared between them before they parted. Lothíriel did not leave, though. She stood, her white fingers grasping the fabric about her, tall and proud, unwavering as the wind whipped around her. The snow swirled and twisted, but she did not move, waiting for them to continue.

Aragorn glanced to Irehadde. The Dúnadan did not at all seem pleased to have Amrothos joining them, but he wisely chose not to broach the matter. Instead he merely turned, squinting as he looked down the winding, dark street. He began to walk again.

Amrothos came to stand beside Aragorn. "Thank you, my Lord. I will not disappoint you."

The king nodded. "I know," he responded softly, and his voice was nearly ripped away by the wind. The lad had heard him though, for his face flushed with pride. Aragorn clasped him on the shoulder once before following Irehadde.

The three companions trudged into the darkness ahead of them. They were unlikely, but such was the way of things. Race, age… these barriers mattered little to the bonds of fellowship. They walked, lowering their eyes against the snow, trusting their feet to carry them through the storm. The path might wind, hidden in snow and shadow, but invariably it would lead them to war.

Feet were heavy, but hearts were free enough to weather the gales and endure the night. Come morning, one way or another, everything would change. They would stand or fall. They would win or lose. They would live or die. Somehow these eventualities mattered little. Chance. Fate. Paths splitting before them. They could see nothing, and they were afraid. Only one thing was unequivocally true.

No matter the road beneath their feet, walking at all was a far better thing than standing still.


	35. The Siege

Minas Tirith had fallen.

Words scarcely uttered in the passing of so many years, and for that rarity they were made even more incredible. Gondor, a strong hand in the east. Gondor, a bright nation of men that had withstood the darkest of hours, the crushing grip of Mordor ever on its horizon. And yet it had not faltered then. It had risen above the shadow, proud and tall, endowed with the strength of its past and the promise of its future. It had triumphed against crushing odds, facing the oppressive shadow with a measure of resolve remarkable for its fervor. The bulwark of man's faith. The seat of the Free Peoples. The dark forces had come and thrown themselves against the seven circles of the city, but they had never reached the Citadel.

This war would make history, it seemed.

A black cloud had swept inside the gate, and its putrid stench was reaching across the White City. The spreading shadow was inescapable, violent and oppressive in its crushing grasp. It was coming over them, bringing men and swords and arrows. Death and destruction. As impossible as it seemed, the war had burst inside their home. A once distant and surreal prospect had become very much tangible and terribly undeniable. They could hear it now, the cries of dying men and of ruthless invaders, the ringing of steel and the twang of bowstrings. They could see it. Soldiers garbed in black and gold poured through the open Gateway. The red standards of the serpent rose above the streets of Minas Tirith, the golden snake basking in this new day with a definitive air of superiority. A ruler gazing down upon a subjugated people.

The dawn would be bright, but it heralded a very black day.

 _And her king?_  Aragorn thought bitterly as he pushed himself tighter against the freezing stone of the third gates' parapet. He could not find an easy answer to that question. Her king had been fighting since the deep throes of the snowy night. Her king had led the defense of the second gate until it had fallen a few hours ago. Her king had rallied the weary troops, rejuvenating their spirits. But the sad fact of it was that all of that meant very little. They had lost the second gate already, and Holis had not yet entered the city.

At least, Aragorn hoped he had not.

Truthfully it was quite difficult to be certain. In the shadows and snow, one man had become as indistinct as the next. The invaders had been but a black mess crowded upon the streets below them. If Holis had ventured inside Minas Tirith during the chaos of the dark fight, he would have been nigh invisible.

He could only have faith that this fight was not yet lost, that they had not missed their opportunity. Of course, believing in such a resolution was hardly more than comfort. Aragorn lifted his head slightly, struggling to peer over the top of the parapet, an icy wind stealing the breath from his lips. Before him the dark army swarmed, pounding at the wall with violent anticipation. He scanned the scene briefly, giving the soldiers below a cursory glance, but what he saw was no different from what he had seen a few minutes prior. Unless Holis had hidden himself amongst his men, he was not yet present. Aragorn drew a long, exhausted breath and sank down, gripping the hilt of his blade tighter. It scarcely seemed in Holis' style for the emperor to slip inside the city undetected. Rather, Aragorn expected the man to ride victoriously into his conquered nation atop his tall, black charger. Anything less would demean the worth of Holis' absolute victory, and the emperor prided himself too much on appearances and theatrics to neglect this final production.

Still, if this line of reasoning was true, it left an even more alarming prospect in its wake: the sun was nearly risen, and Holis had not yet arrived.

An arrow struck the stone behind him with a horrific snap, and the king winced. Without munitions, there was little they could do to defend the gate. Every last arrow was gone, and the fletchers could not produce new supplies fast enough. Women were rushing on the street behind them, carrying smaller vats and cauldrons of oil and hot water. The soldiers had formed a line of sorts, taking the steaming vessels from the women and passing them upward to those upon the gate. Lifted as well were blocks and other heavy items that they could throw down upon the invaders. The king watched as one particularly large vat of boiling water was pushed to the edge of the ramparts and then tipped, its scalding content splashing down upon the troops below. Their agonized cries were lost in the hum of battle.

Irehadde bellowed an order to a line of troops to their left. The men nodded to his command, preparing to pull upward from the ladders and pulleys another vessel. However, before they could succeed in their task, a volley of fire came down upon them. The men screamed as they were struck with the vicious arrows, a few pitching backward with the force of the impact. Aragorn's heart was pounding in his ears as he tucked his body flush to the protection of the wall. The huge, blackened vat the men had attempted to lift lost its support and swung downward. The king closed his eyes and looked away in miserable frustration as the steaming water poured from the tipping cauldron. Piercing cries followed as the hot water drenched their own forces.

Irehadde muttered a curse. He dropped quickly to a crouch beside Aragorn, his armor clanking as he slammed his body against the wall. "We are losing this position, sire," he declared, though that fact required no announcement. Aragorn grounded his teeth together in rage. "They have stationed archers upon the second gate. We can make no defense with their arrows constantly upon us!"

Another rain of dangerous arrows descended upon them. Aragorn winced with every clank of the shots against the protective stone, knowing that time was rapidly escaping them. He twisted his body around, his fingers curling over the top of the rampart as he lifted his head to gaze over the wall. Irehadde was, unfortunately, absolutely correct. From this vantage, he could look down to the second level of Minas Tirith, to the gate they had abandoned some hours prior. Atop it now were the black and gold clad soldiers of Holis' army. The archers were standing in neat, clean lines, creating a typical, offensive firing formation. Obviously they anticipated no need to take cover and avoid return fire.  _They know we have nothing left. They have known it for hours._  From atop their own gate the Haradrim would wreak havoc upon them.

Movement from beyond the second level drew his attention. He narrowed his eyes, raising his head a bit more to obtain a clearer view. The sloping terrain led into the Pelennor, the yellow waves of grass twinkling with snow and ice. Through the Gateway more of the army entered, dark forms marching inside in what seemed to be an endless stream. With them were blacker lumps, heavy in their apparently slow movement. In these early hours, the fading night cast everything in a nondescript gray made even moreso by the contrast with the white of the trampled snow upon the ground. For a long moment, he simply watched these shadowy masses move into his city, curiously trying to piece together a hard edge here and there to form a conclusion. One of the units had reached just beyond the second gate. Men stood about it, quickly moving and working. Fire was set to a round mass, bright and red. Aragorn's blood ran cold.

Catapults.

"Everybody,  _down!_ " he hollered, panic cracking his normally stoic voice. He glanced about with wide, terrified eyes, but he did not have the time to see whether or not his men followed his orders. A ball of flame and rock struck the outside of the wall, and the entire structure shook violently. Aragorn nearly dropped Andúril from weak fingers as he sought to pull back a man who was falling. Dirt and embers shot into the crisp air in a heated spray that blinded and burned. Aragorn covered his head as debris showered down upon him, wincing as sharp shards of stone and heated wood struck him. When the horrible explosion ended, he looked up through the smoke to find his men floundering, wounded and terrified. Then another shot from the increasing number of enemy catapults struck the third gate. This one, unfortunately, slammed into the wall near its top, and many men were caught in the resulting fire. Aragorn watched, horrified, as the flames devoured those unlucky enough to be in the blast. Many fell from the parapet, tumbling in streaks of black and bright orange to the snowy ground below.

"My Lord! They come! They come!" The hysterical cry pulled Aragorn from his disgusted stare, and he sat upward. Irehadde had leaned over him as the wall had shaken to protect him from the debris. Now the Dúnadan scrambled back. Aragorn followed, ducking as more arrows whizzed overhead. One hit a man behind him in the neck, and that poor fellow was thrown from the platform with a horrid cry and spray of blood.

Aragorn turned his panicked eyes to the street. As much as he had hoped otherwise, the call had not been in error. The dark forms below surged down the street, running in formation with startling and disturbing perfection. Between the two main lines of warriors a huge battering ram was carried. The king's heart nearly halted in terror. Then he cried, "Brace the gate!"

The men scrambled to do just that. The soldiers and guards ran to the closed portal, slamming their weight against the great doors to hold them in place. Of course, an experienced warrior saw this moment for what it was: a great opportunity. The subsequent volley of arrows from the second gate flew high, for the archers had released their shots with additional upward velocity. This arc carried them over the gate and down into the street below. Many Gondorians were wounded in the onslaught. Aragorn cursed beneath his breath, but he had no time for anger. Yet again the gate shuddered with the impact of a shot launched from a catapult. The flecks of burning tinder from the ball, doused in oil and bright with fire, were torn away by the breeze. Along the gate they soared. Even the gales seemed prepared to forsake them, for the as the embers danced a pretty, languid show, the icy winter winds deposited them lightly on the nearby buildings. Most winked out when they landed upon the snow-covered roofs. A few headed towards open windows. Some had miraculously navigated through the street itself to find distant spots not touched by the kiss of the watery ice.

In a matter of minutes, the city would be burning.

Another fireball hit the gate, knocking many of the soldiers to their backs. The entire structure quivered and shook violently, though, beyond what the impact alone could have caused. Aragorn struggled to pull himself to his knees, cutting his hands upon the mess of stone now littering the top of the platform. He looked down over the torn edge of the wall to see the Haradrim assault the gate again. Upon a single, gruff command that echoed in the king's head, the group of soldiers below heaved backward, pulling the massive, wooden battering ram. In unison the men pushed, shoving the end of the weapon against the heavy doors of the gate. The wall shuddered again. If stone, mortar, and wood could shiver in fear, it seemed to do so beneath their hapless bodies, vibrating with each massive and destructive strike.

Aragorn clenched his jaw. Everything was slipping away from him. Far from this chaotic nightmare, beyond the edge of his collapsing world, the sun was rising. Night was fading from the sky, leaving behind gray and lavender clouds that hid behind their wispy tendrils the last of the waning stars. Soon morning would come, blasting away the remains of the lingering darkness. The sun would peak her head over the distant horizon, spilling bountiful beams of golden light over the blue mountaintops to wash the world with the new day. Those rays would rise, higher and higher as the sun climbed, and eventually they would strike the Citadel.

And the Tower of Ecthelion.

There was no time left!

Aragorn growled his frustration. It was becoming increasingly clear to him that they would need to fall back. They had no advantage. Within minutes, that battering ram would break through the gate's doors. The catapults were making short work of the men still atop the parapets. There was no hope of mounting an adequate defense. They had lost the third gate. They had lost it!

"My Lord, we must retreat!" Irehadde snapped from beside him. The Dúnadan's face was streaked with soot and sweat, and his eyes were fiery. His glare was not quite accusatory, but it was certainly far from pleased. "This is lost!"

Aragorn shook his head. Abandoning this place was utterly unacceptable! "Hold, men!" he cried. He looked down to the throng of soldiers on the street. There was the familiar, loud snap of a catapult firing behind him, and overhead a flaming mass soared. A cacophony of screams resounded when the shot struck the street, spreading fire and debris over the innocents. The king was about to command that they stand their ground again when the wall shook violently. The doors below bent and moaned with the impact of the battering ram. They would not be able to sustain further beating.

A slender body slid against the wall beside him, and he wrenched his form around, startled. It was Amrothos, and the young man looked terrified. Beneath grime and blood, his face was white. He had been struck some time ago, for the cut on his brow seemed to have stopped bleeding. He shook, though Aragorn imagined it was a mixture of fear and excitement that twisted his body. "The left unit has fallen, sire!" he declared, his eyes wide with horror. "They had no choice!"

Aragorn pulled himself up, stones and dirt scraping as he struggled to his knees. He looked down the curving wall, hoping with every bit of his soul that this report was not true. Through the dark smoke, he could barely see the other end. Still, the movement of his men in the haze was clear as they fled the burning parapet. The king clenched a fist in desperate fury. When they had retreated from the second gate during the night, he had hoped they would have been able to maintain a solid defense of the third level for several hours. It seemed that time had been drastically reduced.

 _Curse you, Holis,_  he thought furiously, looking towards the rising sun.  _Show yourself, you coward!_  "We must hold this position," he grumbled darkly. "Bring up more water."

"My Lord–" Amrothos sputtered, obviously stunned by his king's seemingly ludicrous orders and audacious madness.

"Would you have them push us back to the Citadel?" Aragorn demanded hotly, turning flashing eyes upon the young man. Startled, Amrothos was frozen a moment, his face white and his eyes wide. Shame shone within them, and the sight brought guilt forth to pummel Aragorn's rage into submission. He smiled weakly, feeling his cheeks warm with an ashamed blush. "I apologize, Amrothos," he declared quietly. "You are right."

"Then we retreat?" Irehadde asked sharply as another rain of deadly arrows descended upon the few men left alive on the parapet. Some of these were flaming, the heads wrapped in oily cloth. One struck a vat of hot animal fat left idle upon the wall. The soldiers about it had been killed earlier, and, as such, there was no chance to possibly prevent disaster. The fiery projectile struck the flammable liquid and ignited instantly. Within a breath, the entirety of the right section of the parapet was ablaze.

Their decision had been made for them. "Fall back!" Aragorn called, climbing to his feet as the wall of fire rushed closer and closer to them. The smoke stole his breath, choking him as he struggled along the wall. The thick, acrid veil closed about them. They needed to flee! They were blinded targets trapped in this plume! "Fall back!"

The order echoed down what remained of the lines of men upon the ramparts. It was barely audible above the shrill screaming. Thankfully the wall was mostly composed of stone, thus retarding the spread of the fire. The platform itself was covered in spilled oil, debris, and bodies, though. A wall of rippling flames raced towards them. Aragorn's heart halted in its pounding pace for an excruciatingly long moment as the bright orange and yellow monster sped towards him. As the front of the wave of repulsive heat reached him, he snapped from his horrified daze.

"Move!" he screamed, though his voice was lost in the roar. He grabbed Amrothos' arm and hauled the paralyzed young man to his feet. Irehadde was beside him instantaneously, placing his own form in between the advancing blaze and the king. Aragorn shoved Amrothos before him, panic churning in his belly, scrambling desperately for the stone stairways that led to the street from the parapet. The left tower of the gate was now burning violently, the orange flames licking the dark sky. Everything seemed to slow, as though time was pausing to allow something of great import to happen. Aragorn paused at the first of the steps, sound becoming distant to his ears as he ushered the remainder of his men down. The bitter stench invaded, stealing the energy from his limbs, and he felt caught in the dark folds of the smoke. The wind rose. The curtains of gray and black parted, shifting in the icy, awful gale. Aragorn turned from the stairs, and looked behind him.

_Holis._

The king blinked, turning and pulling from Irehadde's grasp to run to the edge of the wall. He wondered for a moment, in the drifting, misty smoke, if his eyes had not played a mean trick upon his hopeful heart. He gazed frantically down onto the street, frightened to even draw breath. But it proved to be no figment of a desperate mind. Above the roar of the approaching fire and the cries of his suffering people, a grand cheer reverberated off of the rows of white buildings below. The army of the Haradrim parted, the roaring men stepping aside to allow quite a parade to pass. The banners of the golden serpent peeked through the dense fog, flapping noisily. Six men on each side bore these flags. Behind them the emperor's honor guard, adorned in gleaming gold and black armor, rode upon large steeds. Ulpheth came next, barking orders Aragorn could not decipher to the men around them. His face was covered by a helmet, and from this vantage, the king could not see his eyes. He rode tall, though, veritably proud and powerful. A proper victor riding into his conquered country.

Finally, Holis appeared. Indeed he came trotting down the road upon his black stallion, and the horse was adorned with glittering, golden tack. The emperor looked about, his face smooth and his stature confident. He wore no armor, much to Aragorn's pleasure. Instead, he sported a dark robe and a long, red cape that ran down his back like a river of blood.  _Faramir was right,_  Aragorn thought.  _He_  has  _grown cocky._  The procession of men continued down the road towards the burning third gate. Holis said nothing, his eyes ahead, floating upon the winds of his supposed triumph. His army was euphoric, cheering loudly for his entrance. The sound of their joy twisted Aragorn's stomach. Holis raised his hand in what Aragorn thought was a wave. His chest was exposed. He was riding closer. There would never be a finer opportunity.

"King Elessar!" shouted Irehadde, and Aragorn grunted as he felt his arm being yanked. Gripping the hilt of his blade tighter, he came back into himself, and time jerked rapidly into blurry motion. Sound slammed back into him as the wall shuddered. Aragorn glanced back only once more as he was pulled down the stairs. Men who had not been fast enough to avoid the fire screamed their misery, their blackened forms encased in brilliant flames as they flailed and fell from the wall. Another ball of oily wood and rock was launched, slamming into the street below and fueling the destruction. Aragorn winced, stumbling back at the blast of heat. One of the shops next to the gate had caught on fire, and now the flames were hungrily devouring it.

Once they reached the street, the fire had slowed. It had burned fast and furiously, but the cold stone and slow was helping to control it. But this was a minor relief. The men at the gate were repelled violently as the battering ram was shoved mightily into it. The doors were breaking, their grand wooden supports cracking. The massive chains that held them in place were warping under the strain. There was no time left.

Amrothos was beside him, his face flushed as he fought to catch his wind. The boy wiped the sweaty grime from his eyes, glancing around feverishly. Irehadde exclaimed, "Draw your swords, men! They come!"

Aragorn twisted about, his keen eyes scanning the rooftops. He needed to find a place to launch his attack. The wall was compromised; he could not use it. One of the buildings down the street a bit was quite tall, and its highest floor had a few windows. They appeared to be tightly sealed, but this structure was the only one who offered a vantage appropriate for his task. He smiled faintly, feeling hope rejuvenated within him. Perhaps they could still do this.

But his moment of renewed faith was woefully short. Shock stopped his heart and twisted his innards as one of the shots from the catapult struck the street near him. Screams rent the air as the burning ball shattered, shooting debris everywhere and spreading fire madly. Aragorn hit the ground roughly on his side, dropping his sword as the force of the impact pummeled him. Dizziness assailed him for a terrible eternity as he lay there, glowing embers floating about him like twinkling fireflies. He watched them with a sort of detached intrigue for a moment before he managed to catch his breath. Then he rolled to his feet, his body aching and his head throbbing.

The group of men had been crushed by the foul strike. Some lay dead. Many were wounded. Aragorn's wide eyes darted around but stopped as he saw Amrothos. The young man was still on the ground. Irehadde was beside him, looking dark and irate. Aragorn stepped around the Dúnadan to kneel behind him. Amrothos' eyes were filled with pain and fear, and the source of his upset became immediately noticeable. He had been struck with shrapnel from the explosion, leaving small cuts upon his face and hands. Worse than this, though, was a charred bit of wood that had been embedded into his upper, right thigh. The cloth of his trouser had provided little protection from the burning piece, and skin around the bleeding wound had been burned badly.

Aragorn's experienced hands fell to the injury. His training as a healer brought him equanimity. "Stay still," he commanded softly. The young man was terrified, but he managed a jerky nod, watching his king with hopeful eyes. A quick investigation revealed the wood had not deeply impaled the leg. He grabbed the end of it and yanked forcefully, knowing it would cause Amrothos considerable pain but equally aware that there was no time to lessen it. The stick came free with a rush of blood, and the young man jammed his teeth into his lower lip to bravely choke back a cry. The king tore the bottom hem of his black surcoat free, using a hole in the fine fabric to begin ripping. This he wrapped tightly about Amrothos' thigh. "Go with the men."

"But, sir, I can–"

Aragorn was already on his feet and moving. "Go!" he yelled. The lad's eyes were wide, but he nodded, using the hand of another soldier to stand. The gate was assaulted again and again, sending flecks of fiery debris spilling from the flaming parapet with each violent strike. Irehadde followed him, shielding his head as another barrage of wreckage came down from the gate. The platform was barely supported now, the wood eaten away by the roaring fire. Aragorn ran to the house he had chosen, looking worriedly at the lightening sky. Dawn was nearly upon them!

"Your orders, my Liege!" cried a lieutenant among the company of men rushing down the street to reinforce the floundering gate.

Aragorn was snapped from his racing, troubled thoughts, and he stopped before the weary group. They regarded him with expectant, hopeful eyes, as if he somehow had the power to take this grim, gruesome situation and make it right and good once more. He was not so grand. "Help the men at the gate fall back," he ordered, struggling to keep his voice calm and his eyes steady. "See that the wounded are safely taken from here."

The lieutenant looked worried, and rightly so, for in the space of six hours or so they had lost three gates. Minas Tirith was being unraveled, layer by layer. However, the man wisely chose not to argue, lifting his chin and narrowing his eyes. Aragorn relaxed slightly, grateful for the cooperation. "Evacuate whoever remains, and instruct those that cannot move to stay inside their homes. Quickly! There is no time!"

The lieutenant nodded and bowed stiffly. He commanded his company with a rough voice, but his soldiers required no direction. They had heard the panic in his voice, and that was all the incentive they needed. Aragorn stepped aside, watching for just a moment, praying that each and every one of his soldiers would escape. Then he turned and continued down the road.

Irehadde followed him with long, powerful steps. "My Lord, where are you going?" he demanded, his tone tense and annoyed. "This is madness! What do you plan to do?"

Aragorn did not answer, pushing his way through a growing mob of people. The citizens were fleeing their homes, congregating in the streets in a frantic crowd. The noise was deafening, so loud that the king could barely hear his own desperate thoughts. Women were crying, hugging children to their breasts as their sons and husbands hauled their belongings from their houses. The sight bothered the king greatly. These people were only making easy targets of themselves upon the street. "Go back inside your homes!" Aragorn ordered, though his command could barely be heard over the din. The people were blocking the road, and the Haradrim would certainly slaughter whatever or whoever stood in their way. The added difficulty of attempting to rush through this chaotic mess further angered him. Still, there was no time to attempt to clear the streets. Grunting in frustration, the king simply pushed his way through the panicked gathering, stepping to the sides of the road and clearing a path for himself as quickly and gently as he could.

Finally he reached the building he sought, and he found it to be some sort of bakery. Irehadde was behind him, slightly winded, his breath a cloud of white before his lips. The two men shared a glance for a quick moment, each bothered by the sight of the helpless citizens. Aragorn attempted to rationalize the matter. After all, if he did not fire this arrow upon Holis and wound him, the loss of this gate and these people would be but a small matter. This was hardly a consoling thought, and he brushed it aside, panic twisting his stomach. There was no time for regret now.

"I pray this will avail us, my Lord," Irehadde commented breathlessly. Then he raised his foot and slammed it into the door. Two more heavy strikes were required to break the heavy oaken slab. The two warriors stepped inside, each with their blades drawn. A woman and two small children sat at a table in the center of a large room. A fire burned warmly in a grand stone oven, and the small of delicious, warm bread was a welcome change from the stench of burning flesh and oil. It was obviously a fairly lucrative establishment, for the room was nicely garnished with fine rugs and furniture. A few maids stood at the massive fire, and one screamed at their entrance, dropping a loaf of bread in sudden fright.

Aragorn yelled, "Stay inside! The enemy comes! Bar yourselves in a room!" For a long moment, nobody moved, paralyzed by the sight of their blood-streaked, grime-covered leader in their doorway. Then the woman at the table rose quickly and drew her children to her. She yelled for the maids to come, and the group fled from the ornate room. Aragorn had no time for relief, pushing forward instead and bounding up shadow-clad stairs in the far left corner of the room. Irehadde was upon his heels, his soft breaths steady and calm as they climbed. They ignored the second floor, continuing to the third and top story. The stairs emptied unto a long, narrow corridor. A few rooms lined this hallway. Aragorn ran to the end of it, hoping with every bit of his spirit that Holis was still slowly making his way to the falling third gate. They could not be too late!

He chose the last room, charging inside. He was relieved to find it vacant. Darting around the bed, he reached the large window, which was tightly sealed for the winter months. Fumbling with the latch, he lifted it quickly and frantically looked outside.  _Please, we must not be too late!_

And they were not. The sun had not yet risen completely, and Holis was right before him.

Not only Holis, however. Behind the emperor marched what appeared to be the entirety of his dark forces. The thunder of their feet upon the streets of Minas Tirith was utterly deafening. Their lethargic approach was like the tolling of doom.

"My Lord," Irehadde said softly, drawing his attention. The Dúnadan stood on the other side of the window, his back against the wall. He lifted his sword and held it at the ready. His face was tense, grim with a sad realization. "Killing him will not stop this. Surely you realize. They will follow him, even in death."

"Aye," Aragorn said breathlessly, turning away from the window so as not to be seen by the marching troops below. Inhaling deeply, he reached behind him and pulled his bow from his back. Sliding Andúril into its sheath, he grasped the arc of his old, black bow, and then he produced the arrow from his quiver. It was still wrapped in the blue cloth. "I realize."

"But you will kill him still."

Aragorn sighed softly. He slipped the cloth from the arrow, holding it reverently it. Faramir had been true to his word; it  _was_  expertly fletched. The projectile was perfectly weighted. The feathers were narrow and flawlessly attached, and the tip was solid. There was no sign of the gem held within it. The shaft was light but strong. It was a fine arrow, he decided as he fitted it to his bowstring.

"Not kill him," the king clarified, tipping his head to glance outside once more. Then he darted a glance at his comrade. "They will follow him, as you say. Hopefully we can trick him into leading them to their destruction."

Surely Irehadde did not understand such an enigmatic response. However, he chose not to question his king on the matter, and Aragorn was glad for it. He would need all his concentration to hit this target. The arrow was good, and he was certain it would fly straight if his arm was true. The distance was significant, and with the drifting smoke, his visibility was greatly reduced. This would be one of the most difficult shots in the entirety of his life as a warrior and ranger. However, if he ever needed to make his mark, it was this moment, this instant.

He glanced to Irehadde once. His adviser held his gaze briefly. At first, the Dúnadan offered nothing. Eventually his eyes softened, and in them was a glimmer of hope, of encouragement. Somehow that small glint was enough to bolster Aragorn's resolve. The king closed his eyes, leaning back into the wall for support. His heart was pounding. Sweat bathed his brow, tickling his skin and plastering the strands of his dark hair to his face. His stomach had twisted into a tight knot that hurt and bothered him. He needed to find some semblance of calm. There was but one chance to hit Holis. He could not fail!

_I can do this. I know I can do this!_

He opened his eyes, reaching that calm within him and pulling it forward to cover him. He would have to move quickly lest the enemy caught sight of their position before he could take his shot. He gripped the bow tightly, his right hand drawing back upon the string. Then he moved. He turned, rapidly bringing his weapon to bear, and pointed the deadly tip of the arrow out the open window. For a torturous moment, a thick, gray cloud of smoke obscured his vision. Then it passed, drifting from existence and unveiling the world.

His quick eyes spotted Holis. They were nearly upon the bludgeoned entrance to the third gate. He shifted his stance, angling downward and a bit to the right, and he drew powerfully back upon the string. The world then disappeared as he drew a breath. He saw only the man upon his tall black horse. He felt the light drift of a cold breeze upon his skin. He knew nothing beyond this moment and this task. There was no fear, no pain, no disaster looming before them. He smelled no death and tasted no blood. A calming apathy claimed him, the sort that let warriors kill without the chains of guilt or grief.  _Aim where the arrow will not be easily removed._  His courage rose up within him, sending strength to still his arms and his heart. This was only another target. He could hit it!

_Strike him down so that he cannot rise again._

The breath fled him gently. With it went the arrow. He released it with a loud twang. It careened downward, speeding through the drifting smoke, slicing the gray veils and shoving them aside. He watched, transfixed, unable to tear his eyes from the arrow's path. So much depended on this. He could not breathe. He could not think or move. The moment dragged onward, long and dreadful, as that silly arrow continued in its flight. Its lightning speed had been reduced to an indolent crawl, as though the metal and wood maliciously sought to lazily take its time in reaching its destination. Endless, this seemed. Endless and awful.

But it struck. And it struck hard.

Aragorn could not hear Holis' cry as the arrow sank deep into his unprotected side. The man arched his back in obvious pain, the thick coil of his hair twisting like a snake with the motion. Then, as the world seemed to pause and hold its breath, he began to slip from his horse. He seemed to fall forever, as if that small distance between his mount's back and the snowy ground was a huge plummet. Finally, he struck the ground.

For a long moment, nothing happened. All sound disappeared. All movement halted. Everything was still. Could this be? Could this twist set them upon a better road?

Then Ulpheth ripped about, and his vicious eyes quickly fell upon Aragorn as though he had known where to look all along. He furiously cried an order, his voice cracking under the weight of his anger, and the attention of the entire army fell upon that silly bakery window.

"Move!" Irehadde cried, grabbing Aragorn's arm and yanking him from the vulnerable, open space. This act came not a moment too soon, for a barrage of black arrows struck the building, clanking and splitting upon the stone outside. A few made it inside the building, slamming into the wooden floor. One shattered the window, sending large shards of glass flying. Aragorn staggered, nearly dropping his bow as Irehadde shoved him against the wall. The wind was knocked from the king's chest, but he had no chance to regain it. The entire room was suddenly engulfed in a blast of fire, spilling the two men to the floor. The explosion rocked the structure fiercely. Vaguely, as a swirl of fire swept over them, Aragorn realized a shot from one of the catapults had hit the building, spewing its heated rage inside the window. The roar was consuming, blotting out even the booming of his heart, as he laid there and felt the fire and wished simply to live.

Then it ended. Aragorn remained prone upon the floor a moment more, wondering if this safety was an illusion. After a paralyzed moment, he decided he could not spare these seconds of fear, and he pushed himself to hands and knees. He coughed, his mouth suddenly dry and his lungs heaving for clean air. He looked around frantically, finding the room ablaze. They needed to get out of there!

"Irehadde," he cried, struggling to get breath enough to speak. Smoke was rapidly filling the bedroom, and the light from the fire was blinding. There was a dark form on the ground beside him, unmoving. Aragorn choked, his eyes watering. "Irehadde!" He grasped the man's shoulder, and rolled him onto his back. Aragorn closed his eyes and looked away. "Ai, Elbereth…" A large piece of glass protruded from his brow. Blood covered his face. His eyes were open, still. Black and empty. Soulless. Aragorn's shock was so strong, crushing his grief and leaving him lost. Then he released a weak, shaking breath, and his bloodied, blackened fingers came to close the man's eyes.

Outside, the battle was raging. Inside, the fire was growing, and it would take him unless he ran. So he rose, staggering, his body aching violently for reprieve from this abuse. Panic drove him, for his thoughts had abandoned him. His feet thundered upon the floor as he burst from the burning room, freeing himself from the abyss of yellow and orange. The hallway was already filled with dense smoke. Aragorn leaned for a moment on the doorframe, feeling blackness encroach upon his vision. His battered form teetered precariously, his consciousness slipping away. A surge of energy shot through him. He could not die here! He could not!

Aragorn pushed himself off the wall and ran towards the stairs. He bounded down them, taking two steps at a time. The thunder reverberated inside him, pushing him faster and further. He was king. He was husband, friend, and brother. This was his fight, and he would not go softly to his end!

A moment later, he ran into street. Then he backpedaled, nearly falling as he skidded to an abrupt stop. The scene before him astounded and terrified him. His world had been torn asunder, ripped and brutalized. Screaming filled the morning, shrill and pained. The street was filled with burning debris, bits of roofs, fallen walls, and abandoned belongings. Red painted the once lavender sky, the light of the flames shining upon the clouds and smoke. The gate and the buildings around it were burning. And the Haradrim were rushing through the open entrance, like a black flood upon white rocks.

Citizens wailed and cried as they ran from the invaders. The remaining troops attempted to protect them as they fled, but they were few and the enemy slammed into them in a violent onslaught. The forefront of this final defense collapsed under a volley of arrows. The charging Haradrim trampled the wounded and dead as they ran further down the street, their weapons raised, their mouths open in ferocious battle cries. The spikes of their armor, black and gold and stained with blood, rammed into the men standing their ground. Aragorn heard shouting, captains and lieutenants desperate to slow the advance of the Haradrim and protect the commoners as they fled. Still, this was a futile venture. There were so many! So many!

Aragorn drew Andúril and charged into the fray. As the fire ravaged his city, rage ravaged his heart. His city, his people… He would not stand for this! Before him was blood and fire and death, but he imagined a cool, clean, serene winter morning. About the streets the people walked, chatting, laughing, living in the security of a prosperous and peaceful time. Everything was well, right and pure, and the shadow was gone forever. But he blinked, and that dream was gone. It had faded away, sinking into his anger and melting into the stream of emotion within him. He ran, desperate to bring it back. Desperate to make it real.

"Stand firm!" cried one of the captains. The man turned at Aragorn's approach, his blue eyes widening at the sight of his king. His distraction nearly proved disastrous, for an eager Southron swiped at him with a curved blade. Aragorn stepped into the swing, slamming his own sword against the slashing weapon, blocking the enemy's advance. This interruption stunned his opponent momentarily, and his daze was costly, for the king pivoted and stabbed him before he had a chance to react.

The captain was a bit shaken by the encounter, watching as the Southron fell to the ground dead. He turned to his king, nodding gratefully. "The men are falling back, my Lord," he said, swallowing nervously. "We have suffered heavy casualties."

Aragorn nodded, trying to maintain his calm. He supposed it should have not been a surprise; it was clear they were sorely losing this battle. "Has the fourth gate been reinforced?" he asked, whipping his sword down to remove the blood from it. The thin captain nodded, watching his lord with imploring eyes. "Good. Tell the men to abandon it."

The other did nothing a moment, his face slack with shock and dismay. "Eh-excuse me, sire?" he stammered.

Aragorn ran, and the men about him followed. "We have not the resources to defend every gate!" he announced, pushing back to toward the floundering line of troops. "It will be a futile fight, and we will only lose more for little gain. We stand a better chance of consolidating our defenses around the seventh gate." He crouched behind an overturned wagon, catching his breath and listening to the arrows thud against the wood. The captain and his subordinates remained still, looking flabbergasted and confused at their lord's orders. Aragorn turned, fixing the soldiers with a firm, strong gaze. "Do you understand?"

Those words snapped the captain to attention, and he squared his shoulders, saluting his king stiffly. "Yes, sir! As you say!" he declared, and he turned, ducking under a rain of arrows.

Aragorn winced as one of the shots struck close to his head. "Get everybody out!" he screamed, his voice hoarse and barely rising over the din. He brushed against a screaming woman, ushering her down the road towards the fourth gate. "Hurry! Hurry!" The people, as panicked as they were, were sluggishly moving. Unless they escaped quickly, the invaders would swarm over them and kill them all. Of this, Aragorn had no doubt. He stepped on light feet to the front of the skirmish, where his men were directly engaging the enemy. His heart was racing as he picked a precarious path through the crowd. Finally, he reached the sight of battle.

Raising Andúril and releasing a battle cry, he launched into the melee. He swung down powerfully, and his blade smacked against the shield of a combatant. The man fell back, and Aragorn jabbed at him, digging his blade into the man's leg. Once his opponent fell, he whirled to face the men he knew to be approaching behind him. Everything fell away from him, allowing a warrior's calm to direct his hands and legs and heart. His sword sang as he feigned and returned, as he stepped and stopped. For a long time he simply fought, his strength and determination poured into every experienced motion. He did not feel pain or weariness. He knew only his sword and his heart.

There came a cry, and Aragorn turned, distracted from the battle. He could not locate the source of the scream, but, as fate would have it, something else drew his attention immediately. Light. Bright and pure, strong enough to pierce the cloud of smoke. Aragorn watched, squinting in awe, and then he realized. The sun had struck the Tower of Ecthelion. The rising illumination was gleaming off of pearly rock, shining like silver in a sea of darkness.  _It has come,_  Aragorn thought, relief washing over him as the sun bathed the city.  _The time has come. Faramir, I am with you!_

"My Lord, look out!"

Aragorn turned, but even with his speed and agility, he could not have avoided the slash of the Southron. However, a slender, limping form stepped in front of him, bringing a blood-coated sword to bear. The soldier gave a wrangled cry as he blocked the charge, but he refused to give ground. Instead, he dug his boots into the bloody, snowy street and shoved back, sending the offensive Southron reeling. He gave a choked cry before rounding on his opponent and slashing him across the chest.

Amrothos then fell to his knees, almost dropping his sword. Aragorn shuddered in relief, thanking his good fortune that he had believed in the boy enough to permit him to fight. There was little time for gratitude, though. More and more Haradrim were rushing through the open gate. "Retreat!" Aragorn bellowed.  _"Retreat!"_

Amrothos groaned as Aragorn hauled him to his feet. The young man gave no complaint, however, grimacing only as his weight was placed upon his wounded leg. He stumbled, leaning on the king as they moved as quickly as they could from the battlefront. Everywhere men cried, some in pain, others shouting for speed and courage. Aragorn grimaced as they struggled down the road, Amrothos' breathing loud and halting in his ears. He could not see the entrance to the fourth gate with all the smoke, but it felt very far away. The Haradrim were closing terribly quickly, their raucous and mocking shouts chasing the Gondorians down the destroyed road. They would never make it!

Much to his relief, however, he spied the guard towers of the fourth gate rising from the hazy smoke. Ahead was a grand and chaotic mass of running people, desperately trying to push their way through the opened doors. A few soldiers were attempting to keep order, but there was hardly any hope for control given the state of panic. Reaching the outer rim of the crowd, Aragorn stopped, wrapping his arm tighter about Amrothos' waist. "Men," he called, looking about for the familiar uniforms of the military, "stand here! We must create time enough to clear this crowd!"

Most of those remaining soldiers joined him immediately, though their eyes were filled with fear and weariness. Some chose to remain hidden in the mess of frantic citizens. Regardless, they would not have enough soldiers to counter the charge racing towards them. They were but a hundred or so. The Haradrim came in thousands.

Aragorn left Amrothos to stand on his own, offering the boy a questioning look. The son of Imrahil swallowed uncomfortably, his eyes glazed in pain, but he nodded, straightening his form and clenching his sword with both hands. To his left, more men stood, their faces caked in dirt and blood, their eyes white and solemn. Some bore swords and spears. Some had only their hands for weapons. Aragorn tore his eyes from the poor scene, looking instead to the creeping clouds of smoke blanketing the street.  _This is what remains,_  he thought grimly.  _This is what we are._

_Come, then, if you will! Come and see what you must defeat!_

And they came. In hordes and hordes, sprinting down the street and killing as they went. The soldiers ran, racing towards the resistance, their eyes wild with anticipation. Though the sight was horrifying, like demons pouring from the gray, ghostly embrace of death, the Gondorians did not flinch. Pride beat through their bodies. This was their city. They would defend it to the last breath of their lives.

The two lines clashed. Swords smacked against swords. Men cried. Armor creaked and clanked. Blood soaked the road. The odds against Gondor's victory were astoundingly grand, but they would not simply retreat. The battle raged on for many minutes, as futile as it seemed. But when it was ending, they had achieved their objective. The crowd was safe. They could close the gate.

"Through the gate!" Aragorn heard this shout from atop the parapet. He turned watching as the few men left alive began to retreat. He blocked another swipe, ducking and then returning with a slash of his own. He kicked away another enemy. They were like spiders, rushing over them. "Hurry! Get through the gate!"

 _Go!_  his mind frantically ordered.  _Go now!_  He turned to run, but he had waited too long. The enemy was all about him. Panic pulsed through Aragorn as he fought to escape from them, but he was surrounded. The men advanced upon him. He stabbed one, whipping his sword about and twisting his body. His heart pounded. His breath was lost to him. He fought violently, desperately, contending with each enemy in turn, but for each he managed to fell another was instantaneously assuming his place. Terror turned his blood cold as he heard a familiar rumble. They were shutting the gate doors.  _Run!_

So he did. He turned, his thoughts fleeing his body and leaving instinct to drive him. He leapt over a fallen corpse, cutting at another enemy in the process. Then he began to sprint towards the gate. Freedom seemed so possible that he even allowed himself a tiny, relieved smile.

But escape was not meant to be.

One of the Haradrim turned and spotted Aragorn's retreat. The man seized the opportunity, swinging a heavy club at the king. From the corner of his eye, Aragorn saw the staff careen towards him, but there was no time to avoid it. It struck the side of his head. Intense pain burned him. He saw red, the agony ripping at every inch of his body. Everything held absolutely still for what seemed to be an eternity of his heart pounding loudly in his chest. Thoughts left him, stripped away one by one as he lingered in this awful moment. He tried to picture his wife, his friends, but the pleasant memories did not ease his heart. Instead he saw blood. Shadows. Death all around him.

Vaguely he knew himself to be falling, but it was of little consequence. His mind slipped away before he even hit the ground. He was limp, prone, laying in the mud and blood. What did kingship matter, anyway? In the end, he would be just as dead, just as anonymous, just another body in a pile of dead. Just another soldier lost to the siege.


	36. Swathed in Shadow

_I see nothing but light._

But when he opened his eyes, there was only shadow.

That was what lay before him. He stood upon one of Rivendell's numerous balconies, staring into the darkness. Night had come some time ago, bathing the world in blues, lavenders, and heavier hues of smooth gray. The city was serene, filled with only the whispers of the cool wind upon leaves. In the sky, the moon was pale, compassionate yet mournful, and the stars were bright and undisturbed by the glowering malice roaming elsewhere in the world. They cast their ethereal smiles upon the expertly crafted buildings, lighting the stone roofs with a subtle glow of gold. Rivendell was striking this night, tranquil and majestic, but such unblemished beauty served to only heighten his dismay.

Aragorn sighed. He had spent many years in the wild, honing his senses so that his sight and hearing rivaled that of most Elves. Yet now he felt lost, trapped almost, blinded by the night and left to fumble in the blackness. He ran his hands along the smoothness of the balcony's railing, but the stone was icy to his fingertips. From this vantage, he could see most of the city. Rivendell was ever quiet and serene. However, tonight a particular hush had fallen over it, likely borne from the day's stressful events. A council had been held, a gathering of races and peoples of all different creeds. From it had come a quest. At the time, when camaraderie was grand, when astonishment in the bravery of the little folk had transformed into courage, when brotherhood outweighed all other concerns, this quest had been an inspiring plan. Now, in the peculiar silence and shadows, he felt unsure. There was darkness before him. A road that went somewhere, but he did not know where. Nay, he was a ranger. He always found his way. This road would take him to his destiny. This path would lead him to Gondor.

For that reason, he did not wish to walk it. He was needed on this venture, certainly. He was an experienced warrior, gifted with quick hands and a strong body, and he knew ways through wood, water, and plain that would prove invaluable on this task of secrecy. The Hobbits trusted him, and though they would learn to believe in the others, they would need him to find their bravery. And leading the company west did not necessarily mean they would inevitably find their way to Minas Tirith. Still, he knew inexplicably that should he engage in this quest, he would face all he had previously pushed aside. His life would change, and that frightened him. The journey would be long and terrible, filled with peril and pain, and he did not know if he had the heart to face it. For the first time in his life, he was afraid of the road ahead of him.

A hushed conversation drifted upward, and he looked down. Though darkness obscured much, the glow of the Elves was soft and unmistakable. Below him was one of Rivendell's lush gardens. The air was sweet with the scent of flowers. Grand, old trees guarded the little place, dripping leaves like tears to the grass. Their canopies obscured the ground, hiding the garden's occupants for a moment, but then a glow below shifted and peaked through the mesh of green and shadow. He smiled faintly. Legolas turned slightly, his face solemn as he listened to the words of his companion. She was dressed in a glimmering silver and lilac gown, and her dark hair fell upon her shoulders in waves of brown. Though he could barely hear her voice, he knew it was Arwen immediately. The soft lilt was distinctive to his ears and heart. She spoke with such grace, with such tender import, that her words seemed meant for the ears of her companion alone. He knew well how that felt. Though she brought doubt to his mind and tore his heart, he longed for her calming aura.

The two Elves seemed oblivious to his watchful eyes. They paused in their leisurely walk, Arwen's arm resting upon Legolas'. Neither looked to the other for a long moment, each staring into the shadowy garden. Arwen spoke again, her muted voice drifting upward to him as quiet notes of an indecipherable song. Then Legolas answered. He turned and drew her hands into his. From this vantage, he could see his friend's face. Legolas seemed weary, burdened as much as any other by what had occurred that day. He should have been resting, for the journey from Mirkwood had been dangerous and tiresome. Sleep this evening, however, seemed quite impossible.

He looked away then, offering them their privacy. They had known each other far longer than he had either, and the bond they shared was something with which he would never interfere. It was not his place, though he was brother to one and lover to another, to intrude upon their relationship. He was grateful they had each other, that they loved each other as they did. They strengthened his heart. They made him hale.

His eyes drifted to that shadowy scene before him once more, and the familiar misery returned with a bitter battering of his heart. He stared for many silent and tense minutes, thinking nothing but feeling far too much. The abyss swirled around him and sucked him down, and he let it. Trapped here, he would not have to leave the confines of what he had grown to love as a home. Trapped here, he would never have to change.

"What do you see before you?"

The voice startled him, but he was quick to calm his rattled spirit. He did not turn, knowing exactly who had come to pierce his depression this eve. Soft footfalls came behind him, and robes swished across the polished floor as his visitor traversed the distance between the entrance to the terrace and the railing. Finally, they stood side by side, eyes directed outward.

He lifted his chin and narrowed his gaze. "I see a road," he said, tracing the well-trodden path that led from Rivendell, up the mountains, and out into the dark world. "It is swathed in shadow. Still, I know where this road will take me. Its twists and dangers may be hidden from my eyes, but its end is clear and inevitable."

Silence came. Then Elrond spoke. "You fear the future," he said.

It was not a question, but he felt compelled to answer, to justify himself. He felt ashamed for this weakness, for this moment of selfish doubt. He felt inadequate, foolish. Elrond, for all his compassion and wisdom, often had this effect upon him. Since the Elf lord had learned of his involvement with Arwen that sense of failure had amplified. Another burden upon him. He supposed he should expect such disdain from Elrond; after all, his love for Arwen and Arwen's love for him had set them on another road that ended just as terribly. She would remain behind when all her kin fled this world for Valinor. That was something Elrond could not accept. He feared that, no matter how favorably this coming war ended, it would be something the Half Elf would  _never_  accept.

"I fear the future," he admitted softly.

They did not speak again for many long moments. His eyes drifted downward once more. He watched the emotions cross Arwen's face as Legolas spoke, observing a tender smile upon her lips. A tear, twinkling in the moon's pale rays, rolled smoothly down her cheek. Legolas cupped her face in his slender hands, his thumb wiping away that wayward drop, and he kissed her brow. She wrapped her arms around him, resting her head upon his shoulder, and he embraced her in turn. Seeing them warmed his heart.

Then Elrond released a slow breath. "You are king, Aragorn," he declared quietly, firmly. He turned, staring with dark eyes. "That is your purpose upon our world. This is now your test, your task, a moment borne from the inexplicable turns and twists of fate. Perhaps, had things been different, had the Ring never come to poison the hearts of men, you would stand now upon a balcony of the White Tower, gazing over other places and other people. Perhaps these doubts that plague you now would not exist in such a world. However, assuredly other misgivings would find you, other fears and hurts. That is the power of importance. It is also its curse. You will never be free of such torment. You are king."

"I have never wished to be," he returned bitterly.

"A selfish thought," Elrond countered. "Sacrifices will be made. Fate has not blessed you with an easy task, but anger and grief will do little to amend that. Do you believe Frodo Baggins wished upon himself the misery of bearing the One Ring? Do you believe he assumed this task without knowing the extent of what it will do to him?" Elrond's eyes sank to the garden below. "Do you believe my daughter will not bemoan her destiny when she makes her decision? Do you believe Legolas does not fear for his father and his kingdom, that he does not realize his choice to join this Fellowship denies his nation of his services? Do you not think that Boromir, son of the Steward, does not face the same toil?" He shook his head. "Each of your companions has faced this road swathed in shadows. Each of them knows the danger, the consequences, the misery promised by defeat and the changes accompanied by success."

"And I would have them stand aside!" he declared hotly.

Silence. He heard Lord Elrond shift beside him. When the Elf spoke again, his voice was soft. It was not entirely tender, but sorrow and compassion had found its way into his tone. "They will follow you," he said. "You may curse the turns of destiny for leading you to this perilous path, but you are king, Aragorn. In this world and any perversion of it. You were meant to walk this path because only you have the strength and courage to find its end. Only you can restore Gondor to a time of glory and peace. And only you can protect it in the years that will come. Perhaps you doubt yourself, your abilities, but you were placed upon this road because you can find your way." He sighed softly. "And they will always follow you because they love you and believe in you. Their faith is your shield, and their strength is your sword. I do not fear for them, though the pain they will face for your sake disturbs me. I do not fear for them."

He was not certain of the truthfulness of Elrond's last words. In fact, as an awkward quiet snaked its way past them, he became certain that the Elf's assertion was an exaggeration at best. He loved his daughter. Her fate terrified him.

Hands grabbed his shoulders then and pulled him from his dark thoughts. Anger flitted across Elrond's normally serene face. "But I fear for you, and what the threat of their suffering will do to you. You will stand still, paralyzed by terror, should the blood they readily offer be spilt from their flesh. You will curse yourself for allowing such a thing to occur, and your guilt and sorrow will flood your path with mud and rock. You will lose your way in the fog, and in doing so, you will lose their way, as well. I will not have that! You are king, Aragorn, and you must accept that! Take what they offer, take their love, and protect them! They have already given you everything. They have already set their feet upon that road swathed in shadow."

He raised his chin. Elrond's eyes were fiery. "Meet them now. Step on that road. Do not look back. Go now. Your kingdom awaits you, Elessar."

* * *

"Elessar! Elessar!  _Elessar!_ "

Horns bellowed a deep note, the sound rising over the din to rock and vibrate the buildings. It seemed to shake the very foundations of Minas Tirith, a violent call of incoming violence. When the reverberation terminated, once more the roar of the Haradrim rose to pierce the morning air. "Elessar!" they cried, their voices hard and high with joy and arrogance. "Elessar! Elessar!"

They were calling him. Taunting him. They wanted him to show his face and greet their triumphant march. They wanted him to rise, the make his last stand so that they could squash him and his meager forces once and for all and make this day the final of the war. They wanted to end his reign.

Aragorn struggled to open his eyes. Memory meshed with reality, and this monster held him captive for many long, torturous moments. The rush of sound crashed into him, pushing him back down into oblivion. He was tethered as well, though, to a growing sense of duty, and with every moment he spent struggling in the abyss between wakefulness and sleep, the tie to awareness grew stronger. Away from him flew the comfort of Rivendell, the sight of his loved ones, the words of his mentor. Without those phantoms, the pain grabbed him eagerly and throttled him. This last obstacle was the worst, shoving him violently down to unconsciousness. Only with a great amount of will was he able to surmount it. Freedom was never easily won.

The king groaned and then gasped, his sight blurry and his heart thundering. Every part of him ached with fiery insistence, his limbs throbbing in dull agony and his head pulsing madly. When he attempted to focus his bleary eyes upon the spinning, hazy scene overhead, the hurt booming behind his brow and breaking his skull intensified to the point where he feared he would again simply slip into the comfort of blackness.  _You cannot go back,_  came the angry voice of his conscience.  _Open your eyes. You will see only light._

Still he did not see light. In fact, what was above him was so dark that he wondered briefly if he had opened his eyes at all. Finally the sable nothingness took shape. There were rafters of a darker sort of brown crossing a wooden ceiling. His muddled mind required a moment or two to realize he was lying on his back upon something soft enough to be a bed. He shifted his head a little, wincing at the sharp pain shooting down the base of his skull to the very tips of his toes. He was in a sparsely furnished bedroom. The curtains were tightly drawn, but light still seeped in from the outside world. The door was tightly shut, and a chair was pushed against it and set beneath the knob to block entrance. He saw a small, nicked table to his left, and upon it was an assortment of jars, glasses, and bowls. Some were filled with water. Over the thundering of his heart was that grotesque chanting. "Elessar! Elessar!" Why were they calling to him? Who were they?  _Where_  was he?

Then he remembered. The war. The battle at the gate. Their plan. The arrow. The retreat. The blow to his head. Anxious fear rolled over him, leaving him shaking. What had happened? A million questions stampeded through his dazed mind. He groaned in frustrated misery.

"My Lord?"

He turned his head sharply, surprise rattling him, and immediately regretted the action for the pain it caused. When he managed to blink the resulting tears from his eyes, he saw a young man seated in a chair beside one of the windows. The boy was dressed for battle, adorned in plate mail, a surcoat with a bright swan upon blue, and a cape, but his attire was ripped, stained, and coated in grime. A dirty face broke in a joyous smile. "Oh, praise be, sir!" The excited young man stumbled from his chair to sink into another chair beside Aragorn's bed.

Aragorn squinted, angry that his memory was not readily producing the information he needed. After a long, torturous moment, he managed to match a name to the face. "Amrothos?" he asked softly. His voice was rough and meek, twisted with thirst. The weak rasp sounded alien to his ears.

"Yes, sir," Amrothos affirmed. The lad reached over him to grab a glass and a pitcher of water. He poured a bit into the vessel. Aragorn struggled to sit, pushing his body upward with his elbows, but he sagged, finding he had not the strength to go any further. Amrothos was quick to aid him, sliding an arm behind the king's shoulders to support him. The boy then fluffed the pillows behind him and helped him settle against the headboard. "Here," he said softly, offering his king the partially filled glass. Aragorn accepted it, his hand shaking as it brought the drink to his lips. The water tasted cool and wonderful, and he eagerly drank every last drop. When he was finished, he handed the empty glass back to Amrothos. The son of Imrahil smiled weakly. "We haven't much, sir."

Aragorn glanced around the room again. This was surely a house, but one he had never seen before. "Where are we?"

Amrothos was setting the glass to the table. "I am not certain, sir," he admitted. "Somewhere in the sixth circle."

"The sixth circle! What of the Haradrim?"

The boy was troubled by the shock he heard in his liege's tone. "We tried to hold them, my Lord," he stammered, his eyes wide and filled with emotion. "I swear to you, we did not easily surrender this city! There were simply too many, and controlling the fires was difficult enough. We could not stand against them."

Aragorn was struggling to understand. Icy dread had settled in his belly, his innards twisting in nauseous horror. "How long?" he demanded, shaking his head, his pale lips hardly forming about the words.

"Sir?"

"How long?" he snapped in fury, his hands reaching forth to grab the boy's coat and yank him closer.

Amrothos seemed terrified, his face pale. Aragorn could see cuts covering his skin, the angry red marks coated in grime. The lad grimaced, hesitation and apprehension glimmering in his eyes. "Two days," he declared in a whisper. "We… we tried to get you to the Houses of Healing, but it was already too late."  _This cannot be possible._  "They have taken it, sir."

"And the Citadel?"

The look in the young man's eyes was answer enough. He was ashamed, mortified, and exhausted. He was lost in this, as lost as all of them had become. Knowing that somehow made the hurt worse. Still, the ranger maintained some meager semblance of hope. It grew stronger and stronger, a spark fed by the fire of desperation, until it consumed him, until he could think of nothing else. "It cannot be," he murmured, shaking his head. He could not breathe. He could hardly think. "Surely it cannot be!"

Amrothos watched him sadly, his eyes filled with angry tears, before shaking his head. "We have failed you, my King. I am so very sor–"

"No!" Only fury drove him as he pushed the boy aside and struggled from bed. The pain was crippling, but he ignored its throbbing punishment. Chanting over and over again in his mind was a firm denial. This could not be real. A nightmare, mayhap. He dreamt still. He could not have spent two days, two precious days, wasting away in sleep while his country was conquered! He could not have permitted such an atrocity to occur! He was king, and his war was not lost! The mantra continued, thundering inside his head, driving his stumbling legs and gasping lungs. His blurred vision was focused upon the window. He had to reach it. He had to see!

_It cannot be! It cannot be!_

But it was.

"Elessar! Elessar! Elessar!"

Aragorn sagged against the window frame, his rage abandoning him to the cruel whims of shock and terror. The Haradrim were all around him, on the streets, before the buildings, their gold, bloody armor glinting wetly. Outside cold, icy sleet fell, blown about by a vicious wind, but the foul weather did not dissuade the invaders from flaunting their conquest. The banners of the golden serpent flew in the rain, twisting in the smoky zephyrs. The army was crowded upon the streets, chanting their summons, filling Minas Tirith with their poisonous glee. They went higher and higher. Aragorn's wide eyes followed the path of black and gold and red. It led to the seventh gate, to the last stronghold, and the doors to the Citadel were wide open. The enemy was inside.

"No," he moaned. The seventh gate was burned and wrecked, the pale towers scorched. Upon its parapets new flags were flying. The White Tree was gone, replaced with that sun-kissed snake on its crimson bed of blood. The life fled from Aragorn, the energy racing from his weary limbs. He remembered that fateful night when the assassin had slipped into his home. Those banners had flown then, hideous and hateful, but they had been quickly removed and easily forgotten. He had never imagined that that moment would herald the future. He had never dreamed Holis' threats would prove themselves true. The Citadel had never been besieged, its white walls and pristine gardens forever safe from the cruelty of an invader. It had never been touched by the hands of evil. It had always been protected, tall and proud and strong, pure even in the darkest, foulest storms.  _Until now._

Tears ran down Aragorn's face. Amrothos was grabbing his arm, struggling to support him, to reach him through a mist of choking, poisonous terror. The boy's words were distant and his aid was inconsequential. The king lost his will to stand, the pain and misery pulling him down, and he slid to the floor. In this awful daze, he could only think of his friends. They were trapped in the Citadel, prisoners of Holis. Faramir and Éowyn. Legolas. Arwen. He had promised he would return. He had failed them. He had failed them all.  _Elbereth,_  he pleaded desperately,  _save them! Take me, if you will, but save them!_

Amrothos knelt before him. "My Lord, please," he said softly. His eyes shone in fear. It was obvious his king's suffering stabbed through to his resolve. He, as well, was terrified, lost, and hurting. "You are ill. You must rest. I am no healer, but the blow struck upon your head seems very serious."

Aragorn's numb hand absently reached upward to probe a newly noticed wound upon his temple. Amrothos had wrapped his head in linen, it seemed, and he slipped his fingers beneath the cloth. The area was terribly tender; the slightest pressure was agony to the torn skin. The blood had dried into a sticky mess of hair. Instinctively he gauged the gravity of the injury. Though the pain was great, the bone was not harmed and the bleeding had stopped. He was fortunate that attacker had not split open his skull.  _Fortunate!_  he thought bitterly.  _Fate has forsaken me! No rest can avail us now._

But he was king. He thought of Legolas, remembering again the terror in his friend's eyes when he had spoken of the Holis' attack upon him and the wounds painting the Elf's body. He thought of Faramir, as injured and weak as he was. The steward, though keen and brave, would be unable to protect their home. He thought of Arwen and saw her beautiful face streaked with tears, her mouth open in a soundless scream for help. He could not give up. Though his mind had collapsed under the enormous weight of finality, his heart lumbered onward. He licked his lips. "Has there been sign at all of the army?" he asked, struggling to moisten his dry mouth enough to speak.

Amrothos seemed confused, but the young man answered all the same. "No, my Liege."

Another blow to his weakening resolution. "And the Gateway. Has it been opened?"

His companion's countenance was twisted with befuddlement. "I cannot say. The Haradrim had secured it, Lord. I know not if they guard it still." The boy's tone was deflated with defeat, but Aragorn's frantic heart seized any hope. Perhaps Gimli had reached the Gateway. Perhaps their plan had worked. It seemed unlikely, terribly so, but he forced himself to believe it possible. Without this tiny fledgling faith, the only step left in this journey would be accepting defeat. He was not ready to take that step. He never wanted to be ready.

Gritting his teeth, he struggled to stand, using the wall behind to raise his hurting body. Amrothos rose with him, steadying him as he teetered precariously on his unsteady feet. Aragorn gasped, frustrated with his leaden body and pounding head. He could not afford such weakness. "Rally the men," he declared, taking a cursory stock of his equipment. His chain mail appeared unbroken, his coat streaked with filth but otherwise intact. He noticed his sword propped against the bed, his dagger, bow, and quiver with it. The sight of his weapons, waiting and ready, bolstered his strength. "The last gate will create a bottleneck, and they will be slow moving their forces inside the Citadel. It is not much, but the delay might be advantageous…" He noticed Amrothos' pale face and downcast eyes. The king knew the source of the young soldier's dismay before he even inquired about it. "What is it?"

"There are no men, my Lord," the young man answered softly.

Aragorn was surprised, though he knew he should not have been. It was that last shred of hope to which he clung betraying him once more. "No men?" he whispered hoarsely, the blood draining from his face, his eyes glazed. "How can that be?" he asked emptily.

"They slaughtered us," Amrothos meekly explained. It was obvious from the haunted expression that graced the lad's features that the experience had been traumatic. "The men were reluctant to abandon their posts, sir. But you mustn't fault them! Had they not fought at the gates, we would not have been able to carry you to safety. They held to the very last, sir, the very last. When we reached this place, there was but a company left. We hurried to see you protected, and then they fled to draw the attention of the approaching enemy elsewhere. None of them returned."

The young man's words hardly reached him. He sunk once more, leaning against the wall. The knowledge was a blow, crippling him as it stole the breath from his lungs. A cold sweat bathed his filthy brow, tickling the small of his back. The pain came again, the terrible throbbing stealing his mind from him until only that horrible truth remained. "No men," he declared again in a weak whisper.

Amrothos was quick to offer hope. "Perhaps some yet resist, sir. The retreat was chaotic. I know not if all of them were lost."

Aragorn gave a twisted, half of a grin. Frustrated madness bubbled within him, as black and foul as the plague of evil flooding his city. "Perhaps," he agreed, though he did not believe it. Regardless, it would matter little. A handful of soldiers could do little against thousands of invaders. Their prospects had been bleak when they had had hundreds of troops and archers to mount a defense. The remains of their pulverized forces would be spread wide, and it would be all but impossible to assemble them and reorganize their efforts. Not that a few men could do much. It was over. They were going to die.

He could not reach the Citadel.

Amrothos heaved a pained sigh and staggered backward. The boy sat upon the bed, stretching his right leg before him. Aragorn had forgotten that he had been wounded, and in the haze of panic and depression of these moments past he had not noticed the other's limp. The king watched as a grimace twisted Amrothos' face, his hands coming to cover the bloody swatch tied about his thigh. His face was flushed with a bit of fever. Aragorn grunted, pushing himself from the wall. He crouched before the bed, ignoring the complaints of his battered form to tend his companion. "It has not improved?" he questioned, taking the boy's trembling hands and pulling them from the laceration.

"It has, I think," answered Amrothos. Aragorn pulled the soiled cloth from the area. The wound was infected, which he found predictable. The torn skin was red and swollen. It must have pained the lad a great deal to have walked so long upon it. It did not surprise the king, either, that Amrothos had denied the seriousness of the injury. The king could not help but smile. The lad, with his youthful eyes and stubborn strength, reminded him of Legolas.

He did not speak as he rose and stepped around the bed to the small table. He grabbed a bowl of water and something that he believed to be kingsfoil. The leaves were a bit dried and withered; fresh herbs would have far better suited his needs. Still, he made use of them, taking the water, pouring some onto a scrape of paper, and mashing the leaves into it. While he worked, he spotted a few other medicines. Most were hardly potent, but one jar he thought might hold a solution to lower the boy's mild fever. He took this and the paste he had made and returned to Amrothos. "Sit still," he instructed softly. He glanced up at the young man's face. A note of disapproval crawled into his voice, a tone made from years of treating stubborn patients. "You should have sought aid for this."

"There was no aid to be sought, sir," Amrothos remarked. He smiled, despite this grim, hopeless situation. "Besides, I could not leave you. You are my king."

The words made Aragorn's throat burn and chest clench. He hardly felt a king. He brushed aside these feelings, though, forcing his hands to be steady. Amrothos gasped, tensing his form as Aragorn bathed the wound and gently spread the paste over the angry flesh. A spike of regret jabbed upward inside the ranger, but he continued onward in his ministrations. Treating this wound had become an anchor of sorts, something tangible and immediate which with he could easily contend. That simplicity eased him, allowing him an escape from this convoluted and crushing mess. His kingdom was lost, and his rule was over, but he was still a healer.

"What are we going to do, sir?"

A long, agonizing moment of silence passed. The world came down upon Aragorn's shoulders, hot and heavy, crushing him down into nothingness. Barely did he have the strength to remain upright. Barely did he have the life left within him to breathe. Tears filled his eyes, burning, miserable tears that distorted the world into a twisted mess of what should have been. He said nothing, holding his body tense and the air within his chest. Still, he saw his hands move as they artfully and meticulously smoothed the medicine onto the torn skin. The motion required no thought, instinctive and purposeful. His hands. His heart.  _The hands of the king are the hands of the healer…_

_I can save them._

Energy suddenly jolted through him, sharp and powerful. From the mist inside him emerged a plan as though it had always been present and had simply waited until the opportune moment to unveil itself. His heart began to thunder, pumping warmth and excitement through his once leaden form. He quickly wrapped Amrothos' leg, and then he stood, lifting his chin. "Fight."

"My Lord?"

Aragorn was already moving, stepping to the other side and acquiring his weapons. As he strapped on his sword belt and quiver, and glanced to Amrothos. The lad was struggling to stand, heavily favoring his right leg. "I do not ask you to come with me," he announced, fixing the buckle at his waist and tying the remainder of the leather strap around the belt to secure it.

Amrothos limped around the bed, though he made a great effort to hide his pain and walk normally. His hand dropped to his sword hilt behind his cloak. "I understand," he said, "but, as I have said, you are my king. You do not need to ask."

Worry filled Aragorn. "Amrothos–"

"I have no duty, sir, if not to you," the boy said. He seemed older as he stood before his liege, his face covered with blood and mud, his body hardened by the toil of battle. His eyes were dark, having lost the gleam of innocence. "I know I offered you little, and now I can offer you even less. But I cannot simply stay behind while you face danger. I know I am lamed, but I can still fight to protect you."

Aragorn watched the boy stand tall before him, adamant in his argument, and given all Amrothos had done for him, he could not rightly deny the merit in his claims. The boy had protected him, carried him to safety, preserved his life. As young as he was, he had done the greatest duty a soldier could. He had proven his worth. Besides, if Amrothos accompanied him, he could be certain the young man was safe. He smiled faintly. "Alright, then. Stay close."

With that, the two of them crept down the stairs of this abandoned house. In the lower living areas, the windows were closed and boarded, plunging the room into a dense darkness. Still, enough light slipped inside beneath the doors and through the shutters to illuminate obstacles. The ranger deftly picked a path through overturned tables and chairs, Amrothos following less gracefully. Aragorn reached the front entrance, which was blocked by a heavy table, and drew himself up along the wall adjacent to the door. The young man was at his side a moment later. The king pressed a finger to his lips in a gesture of silence, and his companion nodded. Then they both listened.

The shouting was muffled by the thick door, but Aragorn thought it had grown distant. Hope rushed over him in a warm, anxious wave. He dropped into a crouch and lay on his belly to look underneath the door. For a house of this size and luxury, the portal was shabbily constructed with a wooden portion not quite large enough for the opening. Through the remaining space he noticed the white, stone road had turned slick and muddy with snow and ash. He could hear the sleet pummeling the pathway. But he saw no feet.

Aragorn stood again, his heart pounding in relief. "The way seems clear," he whispered. "I believe they have moved closer to the Citadel." Amrothos nodded, his eyes shining in fearful excitement. The king stepped quickly to the table, and his companion followed. "Try to keep the legs from scraping." Together they lifted the heavy piece of furniture a bit and carried it back from the door, clearing a spot just large enough for a man to stand.

Aragorn squeezed his way through while Amrothos leaned against the table, breathing shortly. "Where do you hope to go, my King?" he asked once he had regained his wind. Aragorn did not answer immediately, grasping the freezing, metal knob of the door and turning it slowly. Steeling himself, he opened the entrance, praying his suspicions were correct. As his eager eyes devoured the growing sight, he relaxed. It appeared they were. The street was empty. "Sir?"

To Amrothos' prompt, he responded, "Rath Dínen."

"The Silent Street?" Amrothos questioned incredulously. "Sir, why?" To that, Aragorn said nothing, his mind frantically racing. His eyes scanned the debris that littered road. There were bodies everywhere, citizens, soldiers, and enemies. Some were burnt. Furniture and battle wreckage covered the once pristine street in a layer. It was a grisly picture, and Aragorn winced. Amrothos' desperate words filled his head. "We will never make it! The Silent Street is on the other end of the sixth circle, past the seventh gate!" What he did not say was terribly clear: the entire Haradrim army lay between them and their destination.

Two men would never be able to escape their clutches.

Unless…

Aragorn spotted a few dead Haradrim down the road, and he began to form a plan.

* * *

A few minutes later, two sloppily dressed Haradrim ran down the road towards the seventh gate, one struggling with something of a limp. The other was questioning his sanity, and rightly so.  _This is madness!_  Aragorn thought nervously, his eyes rapidly darting back and forth between the folds of his head dress. The armor was quite heavy and stank of sweat and foreign odors. It felt foul and hot. The sable wrap about his head covered his face completely, fastening to a dark, torn cloak that was stained in blood. He prayed this ruse would be sufficiently convincing. They really had no other option.

He paused briefly, mindlessly pushing the unique hilt of Andúril further under the concealing cloth of his cape. He squinted, peering through the driving sleet. Were it not for his rushing heart and the exertion of carrying this armor, he was certain he would have been chilled to the bone. Amrothos was at his side a moment later, and though his face was equally obscured by cloth, Aragorn surmised his cheeks were flushed with fever. He was winded, for running with his wounded leg was terribly difficult. His armor clanked as he drew to a stop, and he doubled over slightly, fighting for breath. "You needn't wait for me, my Lord," he gasped. "I did not realize I would… slow you down so."

Aragorn shook his head, giving his companion a brief respite though his mind screamed that they continue before they were discovered. "We do this together or not at all," he returned softly, turning to give the road another cursory glance. Perhaps such behavior was a product of unwarranted paranoia, but he could not help himself. He felt terribly vulnerable, naked despite this onerous attire. "Rest a moment."

Amrothos nodded, leaning forward slightly and readily taking these few offered minutes to regain his composure. The wind rose, driving icy needles into them, and Aragorn squinted through the stinging deluge. The seventh gate was very near; there was little left of the ascending road before them. He had yet to see anybody else. The streets were deserted, filled with only debris and the ghosts left to haunt it. The houses appeared empty, doors closed and windows secured. They were silent, sorrowful soldiers left behind to witness the destruction. Most of the citizens had been evacuated to the Citadel or the Houses of Healing, but they could not have possibly moved everyone. He imagined his people, cowering in their cellars or bedrooms, powerless and frightened. The thought filled him with both shame and fear.

"I am ready," Amrothos whispered, and the two set off again. Up the ascending road they ran, pushing against the blowing gales and ice. For a long while the two men continued, two straggling soldiers hoping to sneak past a massive, victorious force. With each strike of his feet to the slippery road, Aragorn's heart pounded louder. This was a terrible risk predicated upon a faint hope that he might be able to reach the Citadel. In his younger days, the consequences would not have seemed so grand, the danger so great. His time as king had matured him, and now he could not ignore the possibility that this brash act would land himself, the final resistance to this siege, in Holis' waiting hands. But there was nothing left, and he surprisingly found solace in that. Desperate moments bred desperate measures.

And then they reached the gate.

All at once, the chilly wind and sleet pierced his armor to wash his body in icy waves of horror. Thousands of cheering and chanting Haradrim were cluttered around the open portal. Like a black puddle of poison seeping through a narrow crack they spread widely about the white wall of the seventh barricade. The king's alarmed eyes drifted over the scene, his legs halting of their own accord. The enemies were atop the towering parapets, rallying the men below in their raucous cacophony. The red and gold banners marked the Citadel as conquered land. Aragorn feared he would be sick.

"May the Valar protect us," Amrothos breathed softly behind him.

Aragorn managed to compose himself. "Stay close. Follow my lead, but keep a bit of distance. Make eye contact if anyone addresses you. Hopefully we can slip through unnoticed." He tried to bolster his tone with bravado for the lad's sake, but he was woefully worried about this entire venture. The situation was seemingly chaotic enough. The Haradrim army was hardly assembled, and there were no companies or battalions that he could discern. Perhaps this was possible after all. "Ready?"

Amrothos focused on the sea of peril before them, narrowing his eyes. "Ready, sir."

At that, Aragorn drew a deep breath and began to walk. He kept his pace brisk, fighting the urge to run through the mess of victorious soldiers. He knew such an act would betray them surely, so he forced himself to seem calm, casual. Merely another man in this triumphant army. The shouting was deafening this close, and he could hardly hear the thunderous pumping of his own heart over the din. Slowly he began to pick his way through the rows of men, Amrothos obeying his commands and trailing some feet behind him. The street was so crowded that finding a path through the assembly was nigh impossible, and every moment he spent avoiding the elbow of one man or the foot of another was torturous. Time lost all meaning to him as he struggled, not daring to breathe, concentrating solely on walking and keeping his eyes fixated before him. He could not yet see the other side.

A particularly loud shout drew his attention, and then panic unfurled in his belly. A man was approaching. He wore no helmet or head wrap, and from his gold plated chest plate, Aragorn concluded he was some sort of commanding officer. The man's face was baleful, his eyes black and annoyed. He was heading straight towards them, staring at them menacingly.

Frantic, he stopped suddenly, and Amrothos nearly bowled him over a breath later. He acted without thinking, grabbing the boy's arm and yanking him about so that they both faced the seventh gate. "Cheer," Aragorn hissed sharply, glancing from the corner of his eyes as the approaching officer.

"Sir?" whispered Amrothos in fearful confusion.

The man was nearly upon them! "Now!" snapped Aragorn, and he turned, raising his arm and opening his mouth in a wordless cry. Amrothos followed his lead. Their voices were lost in the roar of the troops. Aragorn continued to mindlessly shout, hoping they would simply blend into their surroundings, wishing with every ounce of his being that that officer had not noticed them. Time slowed to a miserable crawl as they waited, continuing in their farce, listening to the yelling of that irate man as he neared.  _Please,_  Aragorn pleaded, forcing his body not to tremble.  _Please, let him pass us!_

He did not. However, his anger was not directed at them. To the soldier standing at Aragorn's right he bellowed a vicious order, the language foreign and rough to the king's ears. Aragorn turned, relief blasting him, trying to seem unperturbed by the scene. The officer screamed louder, his face reddening, and with each harsh word the subordinate before him shrunk further in fear. When he was finished, his target nodded and uttered something shamefully, probably an apology. The officer glared viciously at the entire lot of troops, and then the other man turned. He shouted a brief order, and the company began to assemble.

Worry churned in Aragorn's belly, making him dizzy and nauseous. The men about him scrambled to form lines, many snapping to attention. It was obvious they intended to march. He cursed his foul luck. Training as a soldier and warrior guided him as he fell into a rank, standing very still and following the mannerisms of his neighbors. He dared not look to see if Amrothos had found his way into the formation. He was afraid and panicked. It would be difficult to break away from this, and the scrutiny of a company commander was dangerous. Still, there was simply no other option. Fleeing now would only be suspect. It would be wiser to simply allow this to continue and lead them where it would.

The man next to him muttered something to him. From the disdainful note in the other's voice Aragorn guessed he was making a derogatory remark, and to that he gave a grunt and nod. Thankfully, that response seemed to satisfy the Southron, for the man turned and looked ahead before any of the officers could note his behavior. Another row formed in front of Aragorn's, and the king caught sight of Amrothos. The young man fit so well into crowd about them that Aragorn wondered briefly if he had seen him at all. But Amrothos confirmed his belief with a slight nod before taking a place directly in front of him. No further lines were formed behind them.

The company was stationary for a long time. Aragorn forced himself to relax, the ice cool upon his skin. Calm came over him, stilling his erratic heart. He despised this wait; every moment spent here was one more in which their deception might be discovered. But he had faith in the chaos of the situation and the obscurity of their garb. Whether the Haradrim realized it or not, their heavy, concealing attire was ideal for hiding. Their own anonymity was a powerful weapon against them.

And then, after an awful pause, they began to march.  _Sloppy,_  Aragorn mused,  _and arrogant._  Obviously the force was attempting to collect itself, perhaps to move further up into the seventh circle and Citadel. However, even as some companies were forming, others continued in their unruly celebration. The men were not making way for the approaching soldiers, crowding the street and shouting. Minas Tirith had been specifically designed with narrower roads as the city ascended the mountainside, the intent, of course, to slow an invading army as it pushed toward the interior. Thus, the marching force hardly maintained its formation as it pushed through the mess. It incensed the king to know the extent of Holis' smugness. Had he an army, he could easily trap them now.

Had he an army, he would not be dressed in foul, heavy clothing and slinking about holding his breath, for that matter. Had he an army, his enemy would not be so careless in the first place. War was cruel. The opportunity presented itself in all its vengeful glory, and he was simply unable to take it.

Angered, he forced himself to look at this dismal situation for its advantages. They were at the rear of this unit, and they were marching past the seventh gate in the exact direction Aragorn wished, traversing this mess under the most convincing guise of all. Additionally, in this pandemonium with men everywhere, it would be an easy matter to slip away, easier than he had feared it would be.

The line in front of him stopped suddenly. Aragorn, appreciating this chance, stepped forward and into Amrothos' back. "Get away when you can," he whispered quickly, "and meet me on the other side."

There was no time to ascertain the boy's comprehension, for the line had untangled itself and they were moving again. The ruckus drowned out the shouts of the commanders, and most of the surrounding soldiers of their company moved based on the actions of those ahead of them. As they walked, they began to pass the opened seventh gate. Aragorn saw the gaping portal from the corner of his eye, and his heart began to ache. Just barely could he detect the rise of the Tower of Ecthelion, the gleaming white turned gray and dismal by the miserable winter weather. This was his chance. He could break away, shove through the throng of soldiers, and go through that open gate. He could reach his friends, his wife, and save them from the torture he was certain was they were enduring. His body tingled, aching to move, his heart pounding shakily with the thought. Again he saw Arwen's tear-stained face and Legolas' terrified eyes. This was sheer torment, to pass the open gate and do nothing, to let go of this moment in which he could potentially reach his family. But, with a great amount of will, he remained in that line. Only logic tethered him to this course. He would never breach the sea of soldiers and pass the seventh gate without detection. He was one man against thousands. He would be discovered and then taken to Holis, and the last hope of Gondor would fade. Truly he would be helpless.

Finally they passed the gate. The grand wall of white now appeared upon their left, and Aragorn released a soft sigh, vehemently seeking to silence the screams of his enraged heart. Logic was, as always, a poor consolation. As much as his darkening mood and hurting soul wished to grieve the lost opportunity, he was forced to address the problems of the present. On the other side of the street, he now realized the chaos was far more controlled. Ordered rows of soldiers lined the road. Once their company joined this section, they would be trapped, their chance to escape lost. It was now or never.

A group of men was cheering before him and to the right. Their rabble was pushing into the marching, their joy sickening but sufficient to disturb the decorum. A few officers were yelling at the men, presumably demanding that they clear the way as their group had jabbed into the company's path and created quite a mesh of men as the soldiers sought to push their way through the crowd. It would be the ideal moment to slip away, and Aragorn could only hope that Amrothos would see the opportunity as well.

Indeed, the lad did, and as their rows collided with the horde of hooting and cheering men, Aragorn stepped aside behind his companion. Both of them slipped into the crowd, apparently unnoticed. However, the group was so dense that they were effectively blocked from going further.

"Now what, sir?" Amrothos asked, though his worried whisper was hardly audible over the din.

"Push through," Aragorn said. "I am right behind you."

They forced their way through the crowd. They were not the only ones struggling to pass, as other soldiers derailed from their march were also fighting to reach the other side where the army was assembling. This disorder created cover enough, and when they finally breached the edge of the crowd, they managed to slip into an alley.

Amrothos leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. He pulled the musty cloth from his mouth to draw in clean breaths, vapor pouring from between chapped lips and out into the icy shower. His face was flushed, his eyes dark with exhaustion. "That was close, sir," he commented.

Aragorn could not help but give a small smile at the comment, amused by its naïve understatement. He clapped the lad on the shoulder, stepping past him to look beyond the shadows. The wind had relented, at least, and the sleet was gradually turning to snow. The tiny pellets of ice bounced upon his wet clothing, clanking softly upon his armor and bouncing to the puddles below. The darkness in the alley provided ample cover to seek a moment of reprieve.

But a moment was all they could spare. They were not safe yet.

"The Silent Street is very near," Aragorn declared, narrowing his eyes as he stared out upon the Haradrim. Such a fact was at once reassuring and frightening. Indeed they had not much further to walk, but they now had to pass the assembling army, and the cover of chaos would not reach them there. Aragorn felt his spirits sink. How could possibly escape this? They would surely be seen! Aragorn closed his eyes and shook his head in absolute frustration and misery, sinking against the wall.  _I cannot do this alone,_  he thought, feeling the familiar sting behind his eyelids.  _Please, help me!_

"Sir, look! They're moving!"

The king opened his eyes, and he questioned what he saw for its seeming impossibility. Indeed, the partially formed army was shifting, tearing into the crowd. Apparently the cheering and rabble had grown beyond the officers' toleration. Those that had obeyed the commands were now enforcing order upon their comrades. The sight was incredible. Inexplicably a thought crept into Aragorn's dazed mind. He remembered the very first conversation he had held with Holis. What they now knew to be a lie had once been a very convincing prospect. The emperor had claimed that the Easterlings were a faction separate from the government of the Haradrim, a violent group that had forsaken loyalty to their leader and rose in insurrection. In bitterness Aragorn had cast aside most of what Holis had proclaimed as falsehoods, but now he began to wonder. Perhaps not all of the men were loyal to the emperor. That encounter in the dungeon with the strange prisoner had suggested as much. Aragorn's mind raced. Perhaps this dissension could aid them.

But there was no time to consider this. A window for flight had opened. They needed to run.

He did not need to ask Amrothos to know the boy was ready. He stood behind his king, seemingly recovered, his eyes narrowed and his body tense, his face again covered. Aragorn drew a deep breath and then slipped from the alley. He glanced once towards to chaotic scene in front of the gate before turning and beginning to run. He hugged the path closest to the shadowy gray of the buildings. Refusing to look behind him for fear of learning they had been spotted, he sprinted, forcing speed from his body and resolution from his heart. He could hear Amrothos running behind him. For a long time, the two did nothing but flee. And when they later stopped, they were far from the Haradrim and the seventh gate.

Aragorn drew to a stop near a darkened smithy, nearly slipping on the rapidly freezing road. He braced himself on a tipped cart. Amrothos halted too quickly beside him, tripping on his lamed leg and ending up on his back. The boy's mouth opened in a soundless cry. Aragorn dropped to his knees and pulled the stunned, gasping young man behind the cover of the wagon. Then he held still, listening, straining his senses to detect any evidence that the Haradrim followed. Long minutes of anxious silence followed, but they did not yield such an indication. They were free.

The king released a breath that he had seemingly been holding since reaching the seventh gate. He drew the repugnant head wrap from his face, tolerating the smell no longer. Then his weary gaze fell to his companion. "Are you well?"

Amrothos sniffed, his cheeks red from the cold and run as he pulled his own head dress away. "Yes," he managed about halting, heaving breaths. "Sorry."

"Do not trouble yourself," the king reprimanded gently as he helped the lad sit. He wrapped an arm around Amrothos' shoulder for support, giving his head a quick glance for signs of injury. Finding none, he brushed the ice shards from the young man's back. Then they sat still, grateful to be alive, wondering at their good fortune. They did not speak, as though a word might betray this grand moment for a dream. Everything fell away: the war, the hurt, the fear. They were simply thrilled to have fooled the enemy and escaped unchallenged.

Eventually Aragorn pulled from the comforting lull of exhausted bliss. He opened eyes that had slipped shut and looked before him. The road was descending here, and the buildings were dark. Though this street was, in fact, constructed in the same manner as any other in Minas Tirith, it  _felt_  different. Here the air was heavier, filled with some solemn and grave chill. He looked down the road, peering into the shadows at the end. Rath Dínen loomed before them, and beyond that, the Houses of the Dead.

The king rose smoothly to his feet. He offered a hand to his companion, helping the youth stand upon wobbly legs. Amrothos swallowed uncomfortably, his face now pale. Obviously he felt the weight as well, the silent tension this place exuded. "What do you hope to find here, my Lord?" he asked quietly.

But Aragorn did not immediately answer. He was already walking, steeling himself and lifting his chin. His narrowed eyes bravely pierced the shadows. If they could reach the Houses and open their gates, they could gain access to the tombs of Gondor's kings. And there, hidden in the shadows, cursed to an existence of silent suffering, lay the  _palantír_  that had once belonged to the Steward of Gondor. "A window, Amrothos," he finally said. "A window into the Citadel." His heart ached and his head swam in pain.  _I hope I am not already too late._


	37. In this Dark Hour

The Silent Street was aptly named. Though Minas Tirith howled and screamed with war, not a sound penetrated the thick air of this dark and powerful place. Rarely had Aragorn ventured to this section of the city, for it was a foreboding, forbidden place. The Houses of the Dead kept the spirits of old, protecting the tombs of the great rulers of Gondor's past. It was a quiet place, shrouded in the glory and shame of history, bearing with it all the moments men had spent living in this world. Great kings. Foolish kings. All were here laid to rest, slumbering eternally in a house of shadow and white stone. There was something ageless to such a prospect. This street and its final destination were uniquely that of men, of Gondor. It could not be taken from them. While Minas Tirith was ravaged, conquered, the banners of the White Tree hung here still. There was no wind to move them. There was no force that even tried.

Their footsteps were loud, echoing down the street as they trod through the snow. The road descended the mountain, turning sharply right, taking them further and further from the city proper. Here no one lived. Walls of white stone surrounded them as they traveled, lonely companions upon their desperate journey. Each fall of their boots, each strike of their rushed, weary feet against the stone road, was amplified greatly in the crushing silence. It felt strange to be there, to be pushing forth into a realm not meant for their kind.  _The dead do not suffer the living,_  Aragorn thought, remembering the last time in his life when he had braved such a fate. He was driven then by the need to save his people. Now…  _I am desperate to protect my family. Such a noble thought! I cannot even do that. I can only see what I have let happen to them._

Though the snow was blowing roughly against his face, warm tears pricked his eyes. The familiar misery threatened. He forced himself to hope that there was yet a chance. Perhaps those in the Citadel were still able to fight. Perhaps the hastily constructed blockades yet slowed the advance of the Haradrim. He was heartened by the mettle of those left behind. Faramir would never abandon his post, as wounded as he was. Beregond, faithful and experienced, would guard the Steward to his last breath. Éowyn would stand until her body was bereft of life, fighting though her strength and courage were depleted. And Arwen… she would never surrender their home, their life, to these demons. She would protect Legolas. She would protect herself. If they still struggled, the  _palantír_  would show him. Maybe it would even permit some mode of communication between the king and his loved ones. The thought was pleasant and exciting, and he clung to it, desperate to maintain this last bit of hope. It was the only thing he had left.

A thin line between life and death, between success and failure. He needed to keep fighting. He needed to know the truth.

Amrothos struggled to match his frantic pace, and Aragorn slowed his steps, guilt panging him. He truly should not have allowed the boy to join him. This was no place for a child. "The walk is too trying for you," he called over the blustery snow.

The boy stopped, gasping for breath, the stream of vapor fleeing his lips brushed aside by the gales before it could even collect itself. His eyes were wide with unbridled hurt, his cheeks flushed with exertion and cold. Such a sight rendered struck Aragorn deeply, and he sighed. Whatever need for haste he felt, it could not force him to leave Amrothos behind. The young man was all that remained. He stepped closer to the lad and slid his arm around the boy's shoulders. The son of Imrahil wrapped his arm about his king, and together the two struggled down the slippery slope.

The snow grew heavier, blinding the two lone figures as they walked. The weather seemed intent upon making a difficult time even more so, for they were forced to slow their pace even further as they trod. Aragorn lost count of the number of times he nearly slipped, fighting in a panic to regain his balance ere he pulled them both down to the icy ground. After a few long, torturous minutes, they reached the great, dark doors that blocked entrance into the Houses of the Dead.

Amrothos breathed a whisper of amazement. Aragorn gave him a small, grim smile of meager encouragement before leaving the boy. He stepped forward slowly, the thought of what he was about to do giving him pause. He tried to rationalize his plan, finding his despondency afforded him no other defense against his doubt. This was not stealing from sacred ground. This was not robbing the tombs of his forebears, nor was it consecrating the rest of those long suffering. He was simply going to enter this place, find the empty tomb afforded to Denethor, son of Ecthelion II, and look into the  _palantír_.

But even that would be no simple task. Gandalf had told him what the seeing stone, long tainted with Sauron's malice, had done to the once noble mind of Denethor. Logic had been twisted, love perverted, and the madness the Dark Lord had wrought in the mind of the man had been devastating. The poison had nearly claimed Faramir's life, when, in a fit of rage and despair, the Steward had attempted to burn his wounded son alive. The  _palantír_ , more than any other burden, had been the instrument of Denethor's downfall. The insanity of the man's plight had corrupted it, rendering its view to a constant blaze of torment and fire. As such, it had been locked away, hidden in the tomb once reserved for the body of the last Ruling Steward, a cursed token forever guarded by stone and darkness. Even now, when the Dark Lord's power was spent, it shone still with his evil, a haunting symbol of what he had done to men.

And that was what he hoped to use to see his family. He was a fool!

His hand fell to the door, finding it terribly cold beneath his fingertips. The great, black structure loomed over him, and he was small and insignificant. The wind rose sharply, howling an angry warning and nearly blowing the cover of his headdress from him. His eyes widened as he gazed up the door. He was not welcome!  _Ai, I cannot do this!_

"I am with you, my Liege," came Amrothos' voice from behind him. A hand, warm and firm despite its youth, clasped him on the shoulder. "Is the way shut?"

Then he heard Legolas' voice.  _"The way is shut. It was made by those who are dead, and the dead keep it."_  It came on the wind, racing by him with each flake of snow that shot across his vision in white streaks. But it was not the Elf beside him, and he was not standing before the haunted Paths of the Dead. The enemy was outside, not within this place. There was nothing to fear.

Yet he did fear. He feared their retribution. The king had returned to Minas Tirith, but he had failed so quickly and so ruinously that the spirits of those who had given their lives to protect this proud nation had every right to be vengeful. And that cursed  _palantír_ … Had he the will to gaze into such a hellish nightmare?

"It is not shut," he heard himself say. Instinctively he drew a deep breath to calm his riled nerves, and then he grasped the handle of the massive gates. He turned it, and the metal squealed angrily at the action. Refusing to be deterred, he pulled the door open. The massive slab gave a horrific shriek, but with a fair amount of tugging it moved. Aragorn grunted with the effort, for the icy ground afforded his boots little in terms of traction. After a few moments, the Houses of the Dead were open to them.

The wind was gone. The king sniffed, the snow and ice crunching beneath his feet as he stepped around to face the entrance. Only a hallway of dark greeted him. The two men stood there a moment, gazing into the abyss, struggling to see what lay beyond the blackness. Aragorn took a step. Then another.  _I will not be afraid. I have faced the Nine and Durin's Bane. I have braved the foes of Mordor! I am not afraid!_

He entered the corridor, and the darkness swallowed him. He saw nothing for a long moment, feeling weightless and lost, praying his eyes would adjust to the pitch and reveal to him wait lay before him. The rush of his breath into and out of his body was so loud in the absolute silence, and he could hardly think beyond counting the thundering beats of his heart. Finally, he began to see lighter grays in the midnight hues. The edge of the wall. Light ahead. There was an iron cradle for flame, glinting with a coat of oil, but the small cauldron was empty of fuel. Fastened to the stone wall as well was a holder for torches, and the wooden rods were idle, unlit and dusty. The keepers of this place had obviously been somewhat remiss, allowing the fire at the entrance to burn itself out some time ago. He could hardly fault them, though. There had been more pressing concerns that tending to tombs these weeks past.

While not caring for wandering blindly in the dark, there was hardly another option. Amrothos was behind him; he could hear the boy's pained breathing. "Stay close," Aragorn ordered quietly. Often had he said this to his companion, but he had never before been so adamant that they remain together. As they stepped inside, a paranoid thought graced him. He stepped back swiftly and grasped the door. Digging his heels into the stone floor, he tugged it shut. It closed with a heavy clank, and their world was plunged into darkness once more. He doubted any of the Haradrim would follow them here, but he was unwilling to take such a chance.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of heavy breathing. Then footsteps began to echo down the long hallway. Aragorn trailed his fingers against the smooth walls of the corridor. In the tight blackness all about him, this was the only way he could keep his bearings. Amrothos was behind him, following with halting, shuffling steps. Darkness swirled around them, reaching toward them, seeking to take them deep into its endless embraces. The king's heart ached in fear, and he could barely find the courage to breathe. Lifting each foot and placing it upon the floor again ahead of the other was a weighty duty. The sound of their steps filled their world, loud and heavy. Hearts were beating with the last of hopes.

But in the silence between, the past reached them.

The spirits roamed these halls, too. The stone walls and floors were filled with their essence. This was their home, their final resting place, and they guarded it. Such cold strength covered all of Gondor, the memory of mighty kings and lords, of Elendil and Isildur, of Eänur, of Húrin and Ecthelion, of all the heroes of old lingering still to save their nation. Peril lurked always, even in times of peace, and the power of a king outlasted his life. It was an awesome sensation, to travel these hallowed halls and listen to their silent roar. The tombs of his forefathers. The spirits of his past.

 _Follow us,_  they said.  _We will show you the way._

Aragorn paused briefly, enveloped in the frightening majesty. He felt cold and weary, but his body carried him again. He was afraid, yes, but his heart would not submit to that fear. They would suffer him because they had suffered themselves. No reign was unmarred. No era unblemished. It was the fate of man to be tested. In the wake of perpetual peace, evil would always linger. Aragorn walked with the strength of Gondor behind him. He walked not in solitude.

They reached the end of the passage. A ghostly breeze swept through them, tickling Aragorn's skin and blowing his hair across his face. Suddenly, a circle of light filled the chamber. The tall, iron candleholders guarding the center altar were strangely alight, the flames wavering slightly but remaining strong. Their golden light washed the room. Then, as enigmatically as the wind had come, it was gone. Aragorn paused, taken aback by the eerie and disconcerting gift. The beautiful polished floors reflected the odd light, the illumination dancing upon the shining surface like tiny spirits. Three hallways extended from this main room.

He heard Amrothos release a slow, shaking breath behind him. They were not alone here, and he was certain the young man knew it as well as he did. He was also quite sure that his companion was just as afraid and riled. Still, when the king stepped, Amrothos followed without hesitation. They had come this far. They could not turn back now.

Aragorn knew his way, with the peculiar light spreading over the area. He had been here once before, shortly after the War of the Ring had ended. A memorial service for both the fallen Steward and Boromir, his first-born son, had been held, commemorating the sacrifice both had made for Gondor and all Middle Earth. Then the Houses of the Dead had been alight, glowing with the warmth of pride and love as the solemn procession had advanced into the tombs. The battle had ended just days prior, and while grief claimed their hearts, stronger than this was the relief and gratitude felt towards all those who had passed to save their world. There had been no bodies to honor, only a cloven horn and the awful  _palantír_. Both had been laid to rest in the tomb reserved for the House of Húrin.

 _Down the hall to the left,_  Aragorn remembered, inhaling deeply,  _and then to the right._

They began to walk, crossing the altar room on soft footfalls. He did not dare to step inside the circle of candles, feeling power radiate from the stone pedestal in the center of the room. There were powers beyond men in this world, of that he harbored no doubt. He had no wish to aggravate those that now offered him their aid.

He reached the hallway he thought correct. Again a long corridor stretched before him, covered in crushing blackness. Aragorn shook his head slightly, struggling to keep his terror at bay. The pain still lingering in his head made the forbidding passage tip. The cursed  _palantír_  was beyond, and he thought he could feel its evil seep through the chilly air to brush against him. He had no want to enter there.

As if in answer to his apprehension, the hallway suddenly flooded with light. The sconces fastened to the polished walls exploded to life, once idle candles now bravely illuminating his path. A horrific bang echoed down the hall, coming closer and closer to them, and Aragorn jumped in alarm. Amrothos gave a gasp of surprise. The shutters about the windows, previously sealed shut, were flung open, the wooden coverings slamming loudly into the stone behind them as they swung. Daylight, gray but magnificently bright, flooded the hallway. A gust of wind shoved snow inside, the tiny specks of white glinting ethereally as they soared to the fine floor. The candles wavered, but they did not go out.

"What manner of magic is this?" Amrothos whispered behind him. To that, Aragorn had no answer. He began to walk. Andúril glinted in the sudden illumination, held close to his face as he quickly made his way down the corridor. They passed dark statues, the Stewards of old fashioned from the finest stone, brilliant and powerful as they guarded this hallway. They stood in judgment, casting sightless glares upon he who dared to enter here. Aragorn did not look at them. He reached the corner he previously recalled and turned right. This time he did not wait for the spirits to light his path. He charged into the blackness, tightening his grip around the hilt of his sword. The corridor lighted itself, those shutters slamming open in time with his thundering feet, the candles just seconds ahead of him bursting to life to illuminate the path his legs devoured. He ran, deeper into the catacombs inside the mountain. And then he stopped.

The House of Húrin. The Line of Stewards. A grand door loomed over him, the wood polished into a dark and shining luster. He paused. The new standard of the lineage draped the walls beside the portal, the thick tapestries blindingly white. The air was very tight and very cold. Amrothos' sword dipped down, his mouth open in sheer amazement. "Arandur," he whispered.

Aragorn steeled himself, overcoming his hesitation with the sheer pulse to save his loved ones. He gritted his teeth, narrowing his eyes and reaching for the handle of the massive and unwelcoming doors. Before his fingers could even brush the knob, however, and great gale careened down the hall behind him. It brushed by them, nearly shoving them forward with its violence, ruffling clothes and hair. With a howl it slammed against the doors, and the heavy objects parted and swung open as though they were as weightless as leaves. A terrible noise reverberated through the Houses as the winds struck the wall. Snow from the hall blew inside in an array of white and gold, and then it was still. The way was open.

Startled and dizzy, Aragorn merely stood still for a moment. The tomb was very dark. He peered inside, but he could see little. Slowly they walked into the room, but the area remained utterly black. It seemed the spirits were not willing to light this last step. Feeling strangely composed, he slid Andúril back into its sheath at his waist. He stepped back, reaching past Amrothos to procure one of the torches from the supply. This he dipped into the now full well of oil, soaking the neatly wrapped cloth in the fuel. He set fire to it from one of the nearby candles. The torch roared quietly as it burned, and he turned around, brandishing it against the shadows. Amrothos watched his lord, and he as well lit a torch. Aragorn paused, summoning the courage to face the demons of the past. Then he stepped inside the room.

 _Begone!_  came a hissed demand from behind him.  _I will bow to no Ranger of the North!_

He turned, but only Amrothos' bewildered eyes greeted him. It had sounded so real. Could Denethor's restless, angry spirit still roam this place, seeking a rest not yet come to it? The thought unnerved him. But he could not be dissuaded. Through this  _palantír_  and the one yet located in Faramir's possession, communication with the Citadel could be reestablished. No vengeful ghost would keep him from that chance!

He entered the tomb fully, and Amrothos dutifully followed his lead. Once they were both inside, the doors closed rapidly, a tolling of the finality of this choice. The two men were surrounded by darkness. Only the feeble, orange light of their torches kept it at bay. Heavy breathing filled the moment as each of them spun about fearfully, desperately glancing in every direction. The oblivion was deep and unyielding.

But unyielding, as well, was the king. Lifting his chin and bidding his pounding heart to stop its panicked patter, he stepped forward. "Find the candles," he said brusquely. His voice was unbearably loud in the quiet.

"Candles?" Amrothos whispered. His tone trembled in terror.

"Yes, candles!" Aragorn remembered great candleholders, not unlike those in the altar room, filling this place at the service. He could only pray they had not been moved. Fumbling in the darkness, he searched for the iron objects. After some time of panting and praying, the two men found that which they sought.

Aragorn swallowed a giddy laugh of relief.  _Praise Elbereth!_  He quickly lit the candles. Amrothos did the same with those he had found. Pale light pushed back the icy oblivion. Aragorn watched the phantoms disappear. The room came into view.

They were standing inside a circle of candles, each now lit. They surrounded two tombs. Neither had a stone casket to lie atop the smooth platforms. Instead, at their feet rested two ornately carved white pedestals. On the left, the cloven horn sat atop a finely crafted, blue satin bed, the silver symbol of the White Tree and its seven stars glowing on the front draping of the cloth. Boromir's empty tomb. Aragorn stepped to it mindlessly, feeling tears prick his eyes. His fingers swept over the smooth surface upon which his friend's body would have been laid to rest. There was no dust, only warmth that reached his heart. There was no time to waste, he knew, but this moment escaped him all the same. A memory came to him. Boromir's eyes, laden in pain and fear, gazed upward to him as he lay dying. A desperate promise.  _"I will not let the White City fall nor our people fail."_  Aragorn closed his eyes, a tear escaping to roll slowly down his cheek.  _And I will hold to that._

"King Elessar?"

Aragorn whirled about, his torch creating an arc of yellow and orange in the blackness. Amrothos stood at the foot of the other tomb. Across its surface was the Steward's sword, the blade sheathed and resting upon red velvet. The young man, however, was staring fixedly at the object on the pedestal. It as well was seated on the blue bed of velvet marked with Gondor's symbol. The object was draped, though, with a black cloth. The  _palantír_.

Tentatively Aragorn stepped closer. He gazed at the hidden orb for a long moment. Indeed, it seemed to exude a dark aura, a poisoned power, and he did not wish to face its corruption. Upon this instrument Sauron's hate and malice lingered still. Aragorn drew a deep breath.  _I must do this. I must know what has become of them!_

A shaking hand ripped the cloth from the  _palantír_. It was dark, the seeing stone, filled with a deep, purplish glow that seemed to emanate from within it. The smooth sphere absorbed no light from his torch as he stepped around it. It seemed peaceful, its dense core steeped in silent shadows. Perhaps there was no curse. He handed his torch to Amrothos and stood before the  _palantír_. Perhaps he could do this!

However, he knew the moment he laid his fingers upon the smooth object and stared into its depths that he was wrong.

Fire erupted from the once dormant center of the  _palantír_. All too quickly the blaze spread. Flames licked across the cloudy haze of blue and purple, exploding from the center and enveloping the outer reaches of the stone. There he prayed it might stop, but it did not. His fingers were singed, burned painfully, as the horrid blaze left the confines of the stone and raced up his arms. From there, it surged forth, the awful heat consuming him. It devoured his chest and belly and legs. He tried to scream against the terrible torture, but he could not breathe. The fire rose, piercing his heart and blasting its way into his most protected place. It shot up his neck and into his head. He was no more. He saw only the blaze.

The substance of Denethor's madness. The fire the Steward had used to consume himself, and what he would have used to murder his own son. It was a vicious, hateful thing, burning upon the fuel of Sauron's dark ambitions and a man's selfish weaknesses. It took Aragorn captive, claiming his mind and heart, scorching every bit of the king and ripping him to nothingness.  _You will not take my son from me._  He heard these words echoing within him, digging into what remained of his thoughts.  _You will not take this from me!_  Aragorn's voice was a soundless scream as his mind was battered.  _Begone! You cannot look! Begone! Begone!_

But he refused to release the  _palantír_. Though he was beset with anguish and bereft of everything he held dear, he would not submit. If this was to be his test, then so be it. He would do anything to help those he loved.

And for such resolution, he was rewarded. A wordless whisper slipped inside his ravaged mind. He could not comprehend what it was saying, if it was saying anything at all, but he knew what it meant. He was not alone. Endowed with renewed energy, strength, and courage, he pushed back on the wall of violent flames. He did not want this! He would not be the vassal for another man's misery! The spirits of his forefathers offered to him this last token of help, filling him with the power he needed to overcome this obstacle. He slammed against the fire, against the madness that sought to poison him. For what seemed to be a terrible eternity he warred with the evil, struggling to be free of it and see past its blinding flames. His will proved stronger. With a mighty surge of pride and power, he emerged from its grasp.

And he saw.  _Legolas._

It was but a blink of a scene. A small room atop what he knew to be the White Tower. It was one of the highest places in Minas Tirith, difficult to access save for one narrow, winding staircase. Once it had been the Steward's private library, a small suite of an office crammed with books, a washroom, and a bedroom. It took his overwhelmed mind a moment to realize he was gazing through the  _palantír_  kept in the Tower. He could see the bed just barely from this vantage. On it, covered in heavy blankets, unmoving as though dead, was Legolas. His face was empty. Aragorn's spirit shriveled at the sight of his ailing friend. He tried to shout to him, to do something to help him, the vision so terrifically vivid and real that he forgot he was trapped out in the city and away from his family. Was the Elf safe? Was he even alive?

He had no time to question. With a blur of color that stabbed his stomach with nausea and his mind with dizziness, the seeing stone whisked him away from that desolate scene. What he saw then, though, was far worse.

" _Come now, Faramir, did you honestly expect that I would not find you?"_

The voice chilled the king's blood, driving into him like a shard of ice. The vertigo was slow to recede, leaving his mind and senses reeling as he struggled to absorb what he saw and heard. White stone walls, grand pale pillars, the wispy tendrils of brown ivy bereft of its leaves on a cold winter day… The Citadel. One of the higher meeting halls. The banners of the White Tree dangled lifelessly, drooping in defeat. The hall was filled with Haradrim. How could he be seeing this? The  _palantír_  was clearly still hidden in the White Tower!

And then he realized: Holis had his own. One of his men was carrying it; he could nearly feel the soldier's warm fingers upon his cold flesh. Aragorn winced. Dead bodies, both Gondorian and enemy, littered the floor. Blood spread from them, wet and red, blemishing the previously clean and pretty surface. So many were dead… Maids, guards, cooks… So many.

He could look no more on this. A nightmare was unfolding before him, drawing his attention, and he could only helplessly watch.

Two Haradrim, one of whom being Ulpheth, held Faramir upright, twisting his arms painfully behind his back. The Steward looked terrible. His body was bent with exhaustion and pain. His face was covered in grime. Blood from a wound upon his brow had splattered down his cheek. He was dressed for battle, sporting a silver breast-plate engrained with the White Tree. That, as well, was coated with blood. Filthy and fallen. Deep in his gray eyes his agony shown. His face was flushed with fever and exertion; Elvish medicine, though pure and potent, could not have completely rid him of such a serious wound so quickly. He should not have gone to battle injured! Through his anger and horror, Aragorn could not imagine what the fight must have been like, pushed back and back again by a dark onslaught, watching innocents slaughtered as defenses fell, knowing there was no hope left… Faramir's defeated eyes spoke volumes of the experience, and he sagged unwillingly into his captor's holds.  _"I knew you would,"_  he answered, blood dripping from a split lip. He had obviously recently been hit.  _"But I fight, all the same. There is something to be said for integrity."_

" _Weakness,"_  Holis corrected. He stood before the crumpling son of Denethor. He, as well, was not untouched by the war. He was disheveled, the tight braid of his hair mussed, his face dark with malice. Aragorn could see the wrappings of bandages under his open tunic. His flowing black cloak was gone, and his left arm he held to his flank, subconsciously covering the wound. Aragorn could not help but be relieved. Indeed they had struck him!  _"And a faulty argument. You reveal much with such arrogant and foolish words. If you so value honor, why then do you fight for a coward of a king?"_

The words hurt Aragorn, and confusion filled him. He watched Faramir's eyes glisten in fury.  _"The king is gone from this place,"_  he answered through gritted teeth, as though he had uttered these words numerous times before. Somehow, Aragorn did not doubt that he had.  _"He has fled the city."_

" _You lie to me!"_  Holis roared, stepping close to the restrained man. Fury flashed in the emperor's eyes, bright and heinous, and he glared at his prisoner.  _"As pathetic as he is, he would not abandon his kingdom. It is the way of your people. You tether yourselves to some frivolous, pathetic morality, and you expect all with whom you deal to respect your worthless laws. There is no law that binds a man's heart to a fruitless cause. Your acts betray you, son of Denethor. You protect him."_

To this, Faramir said nothing. His jaw was clenched, his own stormy eyes narrowed dangerously. Perhaps a lesser man would have broken in the face of such unbridled malevolence, but he stood tall, every bit Holis' equal. For his own part, the emperor loomed before the man, a dark menace bent and driven by a grotesque need. His nostrils flared, his eyes smoldering in dangerous aggravation. Aragorn had never before seen their enemy so riled, so utterly unkempt. It was though he was possessed by madness, an ill humor that rang of obsession and promised violence should its ambitions not be sated. Holis managed to control his fury.  _"If you will not answer this, then I shall ask something else. Where is the Elf?"_

Aragorn's heart stopped and his blood ran coldly as the object of Holis' desperation was laid bare. The king felt detached, watching this horrible occurrence as a ghost might observe the living, and as a long, terrible moment of silence slipped by them unnoticed, he wished he could do something, anything, to stop this. He wanted to scream, but no sound came forth. He wanted to move, to step between the monster and his friend, but he was paralyzed. He was without power, without substance. And, as the scene unfurled before his horrified eyes, he could not even think to pray for salvation.

" _The Elf, Faramir!"_  Holis snapped, grabbing the Steward's chin roughly and yanking his head so that their eyes met.  _"Where is he?"_  The question heralded pain unparalleled should the answer fall short of his liking.

Faramir's expression was taut with hate.  _"You will not find him. You will not have him again."_

" _I will,"_  Holis seethed.  _"I will have him. I will tear this entire city apart to find him, if I must! Spare your folk and tell me where he is!"_

" _You will never spare them."_ Holis grew enraged, his face flush with wickedness and contempt. He lashed out as though physically unable to quell his rage any longer and cuffed his prisoner roughly. The force of the blow nearly sent Faramir to the floor, but the soldiers roughly pulled him up. The Steward's face was flung to the side, blood flying from his lips. Moments after the horrific crack of flesh upon flesh, there was no sound save for rough breathing. The Holis' face hardened, and that cold, infuriating façade masked the monster once more.  _"Why do you protect him, Faramir? Why do you lay down your life for him?"_

Faramir shuddered. He could not seem to lift his head, blood and saliva dripping from quivering lips to splash on the floor.  _"He is my friend,"_  he answered finally, forcing his voice to be strong,  _"and I love him."_

" _Love? Love?"_  Holis repeated incredulously.  _"I thought you wise, Faramir of Gondor, but clearly I was mistaken! A man of a grand intellect does not think with weakest of all organs. Your heart deceives you if you believe love, as pathetic and trite as it is, guides you now. You wallow in guilt."_  The emperor leaned close to Faramir's hung head. His face was filled with sadistic glee.  _"You reek of it."_

" _You are a demon,"_  Faramir hissed.  _"A demon driven by lust."_

" _A declaration from a fool fettered by love! Or is there something else that makes firm those chains about your wrists? Hmmm? You do not love him, Faramir. Nothing so grand fuels this defense. We are the same, you and I. We selfishly seek our own gains from the Elf. You, your absolution. I, my satiation."_

Faramir's eyes flashed in a teary, murderous blaze.  _"You spit naught but deceit! I will not hear your manipulations!"_

But Holis would not be deterred.  _"Surely by now you have realized the Elf will never be the same. Should his body somehow be repaired, I have irrecoverably altered his soul. The light is gone, the purity of his kind desecrated. All that remains is his rage."_  Faramir's eyes squeezed shut in absolute, terrified despair. Holis was utterly pleased with himself, his mouth opening in a mock show of surprise.  _"Ah, so you_  do  _know of what I speak! You are a man who dwells, as is the wont of one with a keen mind. I know you have thought much of our last encounter upon your Pelennor Fields. I promised you the truth of Legolas' plight. I swore I would explain to you why he attacked you upon that balcony when his mind should have been closed to everything save your king's blood. Do you remember?"_

" _I remember,"_  Faramir whispered.

" _I knew you would,"_  responded Holis smugly.  _"My last gift to you. I grow weary of explaining that which should be obvious to you."_  If that traitor only realized how much they already knew…  _"I… overestimated my abilities in administering the thral-gûl upon the prince. While I was well-versed in the technique, knowledge gained from great study under the Dark Lord's care, I was woefully inexperienced. After all, such a weapon was designed with the intent of dominating the Eldar in the Second Dark Age, which, as you know, never came to fruition. I began to realize a peculiar effect of my little experiment. Though I had intended to imprint my goals upon the prince, I could not. A grander, darker, fouler evil had already spread itself within his spirit, the seeds of which, through my good providence, having been inexorably laid by you. Laid by your hands letting him fall in battle and your king turning him away and his own stubborn pride. More than that, though, he shunned the path he should have taken to the West. He suffered because of it. He suffered for all of you. And he resented you for it._

" _The dark magic had already committed the remains of his struggling spirit to its illusion. What I had before me, trembling beneath my fingertips, was the raw essence of power. I felt his muscles tense under my hands, his body laid tightly before me, like a bow string pulled taut… Perfection."_  The filth spilling from Holis' mouth made Faramir cringe and Aragorn cry heated tears.  _"I needed to only mold that, to slip my fingers into his mind and turn what lingered of his soul into a fire of hatred and hurt. It was no simple task to convince even the remains of an Elven spirit that those he loved most dearly had totally betrayed him. Yet, as I said, the seeds were already laid inside him."_  Holis leaned close to Faramir's face. The Steward was quivering in pain and revulsion.  _"Shall I tell you why Legolas yearned for your blood? Shall I tell you why the friend you loved and who loved you in return forsook all bonds of fellowship? His body bent with the blows, but it was not my face he saw. He writhed beneath my hands, but it was not my grip that tormented him. A simple illusion was all it took for him to see what I wished him to see. And in this illusion I was not the one who broke him."_  That awful voice dropped to a whisper.  _"You were."_

Faramir's eyes widened. Tears slipped from them, creating rivers through the blood.  _"No,"_  he moaned.  _"You have no such power!"_

" _I have all the power,"_  Holis said.  _"How can you not see that? I have always had all the power!"_

" _How could you?"_  Faramir demanded. He lifted his head finally, and his eyes were ablaze with the depths of his disgust and fury.  _"How could you do that?"_

Holis only smiled. The sight was terrifying.  _"What better way to bring you to your destruction than at the hands of your dearest friend? One you trusted, loved. He will always be tainted by the violence of your desire, of the crimes your hands wrought against him. He will never see the truth, because I have forbidden it. He does not have the strength to defy what now is real to him."_  The man cruelly laughed.  _"I must thank you. Were it not for your king's refusal to heed the Elf's words and were it not for your failure to save him at Emyn Nimsîr, such a betrayal would have been too grand a goal."_

Faramir was silent, as shocked and terrified and Aragorn felt. Whenever he thought the level of degradation and torture done to Legolas could sink no further, it fell hard and horribly. This was far worse than he ever imagined. He had known of the betrayal, of the animalistic instincts that had broken free once Legolas' soul had become trapped in the illusion of the  _thral-gûl_ , but never in his darkest nightmares had he fathomed  _how_  those instincts had been caressed and manipulated into such a murderous rage. The thought made his head throb and heart thud madly against his sternum. He could not even bear to think of the implications of what Holis was saying. The fiend truly knew no morality, no compassion. He felt Legolas' pain, then, more acutely than ever before. He felt the Elf's body shudder and squirm under his hands, bound to bed, terror shining in his eyes. Terror he now understood. Terror he wished beyond anything to erase. Terror he knew he had caused. He had had no idea! Elbereth save him! He had not known!

" _Death is not fit for you,"_  Faramir murmured, drawing Aragorn's stunned and horrified attention. The steward lifted his eyes, the tears drying upon his face.  _"But it will take you all the same. You will pay for defiling us all."_

Ulpheth's face was dark with malice, as though the steward's words had been a personal affront to him. He grabbed Faramir's hair and yanked back, forcing the other's eyes to the ceiling. The Steward gasped, his back arching in pain.  _"High words, Faramir, and you are hardly in the position to dictate to me my future,"_  Holis arrogantly reminded. The smile and conceit slid from the man's face, and again he was cold and hard with ire.  _"Now, I will afford you a final chance. Tell me where the Elf is, and I kill you mercifully."_

Faramir's expression was wound tight with every ounce of his fury, but Aragorn knew his dear friend's defiance was losing its power.  _"Legolas is gone. Dead."_  The king nearly lost his mind with this retort, but common sense dictated it to be a lie.

Holis thought this, as well. His fist again slammed into Faramir's face, and this time Ulpheth and the other man did not hold him. He fell with the blow, his beaten body slamming into the floor. Blood dripped from his mouth as he struggled to turn over, coughing and wheezing.  _"Do not lie to me! I know he is here! I have seen it!"_  Holis hand came to clutch his side, and his foot rammed itself into the steward's exposed belly. Faramir gave a strangled scream, curling into himself, his eyes squeezed shut. Sweat covered his brow.  _"He is here. Tell me where he is! Tell me!"_  Blow after blow slammed into the defenseless son of Denethor, Holis' rage expressed with every brutal kick.  _"Tell me! Tell me!"_

Finally, the brutal moment ended. Holis wiped at his mouth, breathing heavily. Still he held his injured side. His tunic had flapped open, and Aragorn could see red dotting the white bandage wrapped about his muscled abdomen. The emperor gasped, his livid eyes staring down at the moaning heap at his feet. Faramir groaned, struggling to roll on his back. Limply his hands fell across his chest, blood staining his teeth red as he gazed lifelessly at the ceiling. Aragorn could not believe it. This could not be happening!

Holis sniffed. He brought to bear again his cruel composure, thin lips pulling into a slight frown.  _"Bring every man possible into the Citadel,"_  he ordered, his voice low and even, ringing with madness.  _"Search everywhere. Leave no place unchecked. Interrogate everyone. Kill those who lie or resist."_

One of the men shook his head. Aragorn could tell from his ornate uniform that he was of some power in the Haradrim military.  _"But, your Eminence, we must secure the city!"_

" _Do not defy your god!"_  Holis barked, turning violent eyes upon his subordinate.  _"We will tear this tower to its foundations if we must, but I_  will  _have that Elf!"_  The man paled and said nothing more, averting his eyes sheepishly.

Ulpheth snarled. He kicked Faramir in the side, causing the steward to moan and attempt to feebly guard his exposed flank.  _"What of him, my Lord?"_

Holis' face was blank, expressionless and emotionless. His eyes were dark, black. Lifeless. Soulless.  _"Decorate their White Tree with his blood. I am certain that will be enough to lure a craven king from hiding."_  He turnen, stalking from the room. Ulpheth's eyes were hard, the scar upon his face like a jagged spike of malice, as he descended upon the hapless steward. Faramir's eyes widened, but he could not escape.

Blows landed. Screams rent the air.  _"No!"_

"No!"

And he was back in himself. The vision ended. He yanked his hands from the palantír in disgust, the once heated stone now icy to his fingertips. The blackness spun and spun around him, and he fell. His knees struck the cold ground hard, jolting his numb form. His heart was thundering, beating against his bones as if straining to break free from the confines of his body and escape the tortures of this world. Bile burned the back of his throat. He felt certain he would vomit, gagging and groaning, but his stomach did not heave. The vertigo was sharp and awful, and for a long time he knelt, leaning against the pedestal, struggling to simply survive the waves of agony and anguish pummeling him.

He was damned, forsaken. The vile creature with nothing left to defend and nothing now to love. No longer were ties sacred. No longer were hearts clean. He had been used in the most depraved way, brandished against one he loved. The wickedness of it all! His fingers sought the cold stone of the pedestal, but he did not feel the smoothness of polished rock. He felt warm skin and blood. He imagined Legolas, crying his misery, begging for mercy. He heard the crack of chains and smelled blood and sweat. He felt dirty, so very dirty.  _It was not you!_  a desperate voice called from within him.  _You did not hurt him!_  But his senses were tainted, corrupted by a new madness all their own. He was unable to push these visions from him, captive to their sadistic pleasures. On some level, as fantastic and impossible as this seemed, it had seemed real to Legolas. Only a torture so grand would drive him to murder those he loved. Aragorn cursed himself for not realizing such a thing before!

Then. Now. What did it matter anymore?

"My Lord Aragorn! Aragorn!" The cry hardly reached him. Amrothos was beside him, throwing the cloth over the  _palantír_  once more. The boy's eyes were wide with fear and concern, and he crouched next to his king, holding one of the torches above his head. The other he had dropped near the door. "Are you well, sir? Sir?" His lips moved more and more, but Aragorn could not make out the words. He was trapped in a queer daze, and everything was distant, removed. There he remained for what seemed to be a long time, lingering in a hazy perversion of reality. Then he could bear the darkness no longer. He climbed to his feet, his body shaking. He ran.

Through the doors he charged, and then he sprinted down the lighted hallway. Tears bled from his eyes, the wind rushing at him as he ran faster and faster. He needed to escape. If he could just be free of this place, he would discover this all to be some horrid nightmare. Yes, that was all he needed to do. Amrothos was yelling behind him, bidding him to stop, but he ignored the calling. He turned left, thundering through the once silent Houses of the Dead. His pounding feet carried him through the massive altar room. After that, he fled into the dark hallway. The blackness enclosed him, pulling him back, and icy fingers snatched at his hair and clothes. He sobbed, struggling to be rid of them, and urged more speed from himself. He doubted his body could move faster, but he strove to do just that, his legs pumping, his heart working fuel his wretched form with energy. He could not bear it!

His body struck the doors with a wash of pain, but they bent to his will, parting from each other and slamming open. He staggered out into the cold world. Snow streamed past him in a blinding blur of white. He stood, struggling for breath, his chest heaving and his eyes darting wildly. He was away from that place and all its hateful nightmares, but he felt no better. He was trapped still in the mire of reality. The memory of what the  _palantír_  had shown him was achingly fresh and vivid. Words filled him mind. " _He will always be tainted by the violence of your desire, of the crimes your hands wrought against him."_  He shuddered, eyes open but seeing naught, and he feel to his knees.  _"Decorate their White Tree with his blood."_

He screamed. His voice rose, laden with every ounce of his rage and misery, carried in the wind. He could think to do nothing else, desperate to free even the smallest bit of his soul from this venom. The wail cracked but continued, spilling from the man the weight of his anguish. And when he no longer had breath left to scream, he pitched forward and landed in the snow. There he lay, gasping, weeping, hating himself and all the idealistic prattle in which he had once believed. There was no plan now. There was no hope that could bear him to victory. There was no wish for salvation. There was no dream for a better world. He simply wanted to die.

His warm tears melted the snow as they struck it beneath his cheek. The king lay there, thinking of nothing for a long while, lazily watching the tiny droplets fall from his turned nose and dissolve the white crystals upon contact. Somehow this silly thing was extremely fascinating. The coldness felt good to his heated, abused body. He closed his eyes. Yes, it would be good to release himself from the toil of this world. Faramir would be dead shortly. Holis would find Legolas. The Elf would suffer whatever maniacal, sadistic whims the emperor could conjure, and then he, too, would perish. And he did not know what had become of Arwen, but he was certain that monster would not leave her pure before he killed her. The thought made him scream again. Ai, how he loved her… He had failed her. He had failed them all.

"My Lord! My Lord!" Aragorn lazily opened his eyes, hearing a voice calling to him over the wail of the wind and the pounding of his heart. Feet thundered closer, and a body fell into the snow beside him. He felt hands on his shoulders. "My Lord, we must move from here! They will have heard you!"

"It matters not," Aragorn said softly. The tears seemed to freeze upon his face. "I have nothing left."

Amrothos spent a moment more trying to pull him up before collapsing himself. The boy pulled his wounded leg out from beneath his form, his hands coming to grasp the injury. He sniffed, his own tears turning his face aglow with youthful hope. "Please, my Lord. You cannot give up! You cannot let us go!" The young man choked on his words. "Fight for us!  _Please!_ "

"You have not seen what I have seen," Aragorn whispered, closing his eyes once more and willing for the wind to brush him away as it did the snow. "You do not know what I do."

The boy shook his head, though his lord could not see the motion. "Nay, I do not," he responded softly. He looked upward, squinting as the snow blanketed them. "But I know we cannot admit defeat. We have come so far. There must be something left we can do. There must be!"

There was something. He knew it then, deep inside, the last step he needed to take. The final thing he might do to save his people. And he would do it. Grim determination spread through him, and he slammed his hands onto the frozen road. He gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes as he pushed himself up. This would end, one way or another. He would end it.

Amrothos shook his head, leaning up in surprise as the king began to walk. "Sir? Sir!" Aragorn paid him no attention, though, stalking darkly up back the hill towards the seventh gate. "Sir, you can't go that way!" The boy was scrambling to his feet, struggling to follow his lord. "They will see you, sir!"

 _I intend for them to do just that,_  Aragorn thought bitterly. He did answer Amrothos' calls, instead trudging up through the snow. The wind nearly tore his cloak from his body, and he bowed his head as he walked. Amrothos would not be deterred, though, limping behind his king, desperate to reach his distraught leader. "What do you mean to do, my Lord?" he gasped, shaking his head slightly as he staggered. "Tell me so that I may aid you!"

Anger and frustration ripped through Aragorn, bursting from his lips in a spiteful hiss. "I will surrender," he snapped cruelly, his eyes laden with loathing. The boy paled, stepping back as though physically struck. He shook his head, his mouth gaping, his gaze wide with disbelief. Aragorn's anger softened as he saw the effect his submission had upon his companion, but he was not moved enough to change his decision. Frowning, he turned back to the road.

Amrothos, however, was not about to let him escape so easily. "Sir, you cannot do that! You are king! Who will defend Gondor if not you?"

"There is nothing left to defend! We have no men, no ground! We are alone!" the king snapped. "What would you have me do? He will kill Faramir if I do not surrender myself!" The shout stilled the lad. Though he thought if impossible, his face grew whiter. Obviously he had not known of the full extent of how dire the situation had become. He was shocked, silent with his terror. Aragorn drew a shaking breath. "There is no choice." He turned and continued to walk.

Much to the king's surprise, Amrothos grabbed his shoulder and prevented him from going further up the road. "There is always a choice! My cousin would not have you abandon this fight for his sake!" The boy was panicked, and his voice cracked with emotion as he pleaded with his king. "Please, my Lord! If you surrender to them now, we will truly be lost. There will be no hope!" Aragorn shrugged away, feeling hot tears fill his eyes, and turned back to the path he had chosen. He could hear Amrothos sobbing. "You are Estel!" he cried angrily. "That is what the Elves call you! Why, then, do you doubt? We believe in you! I believe in you! Why is that not enough?"

Aragorn paused, his vision blurring. He could just see the tail of the Haradrim army ahead. They were still crowded about the seventh gate, each hungrily seeking his entrance into the conquered stronghold of Gondor. Summoned by their lord to rape and maim and murder. Tears snaked their way down the king's face, cutting a wet trail through the grime. He sighed heavily, pausing in his march. The enemy had not yet noticed him. He stood, torn and frightened, not knowing what to believe. In truth, he did not want to submit. Though the fight was futile now, he could not let it go. There was a chance, as small and remote as it seemed, that he could still triumph over this suffering. That vision had shown him one speck of hope in a sea of blackness: Holis had fallen for their ploy. He had been driven mad by his need to find Legolas, turning a blind eye to everything and everyone save the Elf. Aragorn did not know the nature of the vision sent to them through the shard of  _palantír_ , but it had occurred exactly as Faramir predicted it would. The man was consumed. He would stop at nothing to have what he wanted. Now was their chance to attack.

But attack with what? They had no troops left! Perhaps there was some small chance that the army, gone now for many days, would return to save them. But was that implausible possibility worth the life of Faramir? If he allowed himself to be captured, perhaps Holis would turn his vicious attention upon him and spare his loved ones. That would, most likely, only delay the inevitable, but the hope was enough to drive him forward yet again. He would give anything to save them, even if for only a little while. It seemed he would even give his kingdom.

 _A king in name only, not in heart._  The wind spoke, carrying upon it the chastising voice that had followed him from the Houses of the Dead. He lifted his head, tears glimmering in his eyes.  _You fail if you succumb. We will not protect you._

Aragorn choked on a sob, the derision piercing his resolve. Ahead, the black blobs he knew to be the Haradrim were turning. Some were headed in his direction. Yet the king did not move. He could not. He was so tired, so beaten, and he had lost his path. He did not know where to go. He tipped his face to the sky, desperation freeing more tears from his eyes.  _Show me the way!_  he begged angrily.  _Show me where to turn!_

The wind roared and then stopped. Suddenly, the snow was gone. The heavy pour of ice upon the city halted enigmatically, and the clouds of white parted. Fate's breath had blown it aside and laid bare the world beyond Minas Tirith's walls.

A cry went through the enemy army, filled with fear and disbelief. Panic began to set upon them as the troops turned, fighting to look out beyond the dizzying height of the sixth circle. Amrothos shook his head, stumbling to the edge of the road and grasping the stone railing. Aragorn followed, his eyes wide, his mind numb. "I cannot believe it," the son of Imrahil hoarsely gasped. Neither could his king.

A great horn was blowing. Others joined its call. Hundreds were now crying an arrival.

 _It is not over,_  the breeze whispered in Aragorn's ear.  _The way has never been shut._

Charging across the Pelennor was a great force. Thousands and thousands of men roared, announcing their approach in a proud, rough call that shook the very foundations of Minas Tirith. Horses galloped, bearing riders over the frozen plains towards the White City. Sky and earth met, and where they did, salvation spilled forth and raced across the fields. Banners were flying. The silver horse of Rohan upon its field of green. The glistening swan of Dol Amroth, sailing in a clear sea. The standard of the Elves, its leaf and flower resting majestically upon gold and blue. The pallid banner of the House of Húrin. The White Tree, blazing on a blanket of black. The flags shone like colorful stars streaming across the clouds. Closer and closer they came. Valiant. Beautiful.

The army… The army had returned!


	38. Rally to the End

Aragorn could not believe it. He doubted his eyes, his ears, his heart. Surely this was some sort of trick! Surely this was only the result of his desperate mind seeking to appease the wailing of his beaten spirit! A dream, perhaps, crafted of the last struggles of a futile hope. He could do naught but stare for what seemed to be forever, fearing that if he should look away or even blink this image would prove itself a phantasm and fade away. After all, they had been fooled before, betrayed on the most fundamental level by fickle beasts such as faith and fortune. Defeat was nigh. It could not be real.

But it was. The horns blew again, echoing up and down the field, signaling the charge. The king thought he could feel the thunder of hooves upon the ground, the cry of the troops reaching his heart and prodding it into a mad rush, beating heat and energy and hope around his frozen body. They were nearly upon the great outer wall. Aragorn snapped from his daze, his heart directing his body as his mind was lost still in his shock. From this vantage, he could not see the Gateway. Was it closed still? If it remained shut, their army would never be able to enter. As Faramir had feared, they would need to besiege their own city before they could be of any assistance to those trapped inside. They could not allow that to happen! The panicked cries of the Haradrim filled the air, the warnings rising through their ranks to alert commanders within the Citadel. In short order Holis would learn his forces were outnumbered and surrounded. That was no "fake" army rushing the gates of Minas Tirith. It was neither deception nor illusion. And once the emperor learned he was trapped, he might do anything.

And his loved ones were at that monster's mercy.

There was no time to waste!

Aragorn's hand dropped to Andúril's hilt, and he gripped the sword tightly. Narrowing his eyes and clenching his jaw, he turned from the wall and began to run up the road. In this, their darkest hour, salvation had been delivered unto him. He had submitted to the prospect of defeat and death only to be yanked away from such fallacy and set again upon his true path. He had been given another chance to save his nation, and this he would not forfeit with hesitation or fear. The sun was breaking through the clouds above them, shooting forth rays of brightness that pulverized the shadows and sent them scurrying fearfully back into oblivion. All around them the darkness was fading, the storm lifting its icy hold upon them and releasing them to the last struggle. It was time to reclaim what was theirs.

Aragorn darted across street. Amrothos said nothing, tracing his leader's steps without question. The lad's strength seemed renewed as well, for no longer did his drag his wounded leg or slump with weariness. Together the two men pressed themselves against the corner of one of the houses, hidden from the view of the enemy. Breathing shortly, Aragorn peered around the stone edge, one hand pressed across Amrothos' chest to hold the boy back. The Haradrim flooded the street about the gate yet, though their previous arrogant euphoria was now replaced with utter panic. Company commanders were struggling to quickly reorganize scattered troops. Aragorn roughly estimated what he could see and found perhaps a thousand soldiers yet at their disposal. They were rushing now to mount a defense. The sight alarmed him, and he watched with worried and rapt attention as the Haradrim scattered.

"What are they doing?" Amrothos asked in a hushed tone, leaning against Aragorn for support, struggling to peer around the building as well.

They were regrouping sluggishly and sloppily in their surprise. But to what purpose? Certainly they would protect this ground, for it was not so large as the lower gates and easier to defend. After all, that had been his own thinking for days. However, they appeared to be mobilizing, intending obviously to abandon this place and face the army upon a lower level. Then the wall behind Aragorn began to shudder, vibrating with a distant but great force, and the king began to realize. They were closing the seventh gate. They were protecting the emperor. They were providing him time to find that which he could not bear to lose.

Aragorn turned and laid his head back against the cold stone. He closed his eyes in absolute misery. It could take hours, days even, for Éomer and his companions to defeat this many Haradrim. Of this he was certain, for it was exactly what his own soldiers had done to protect the city's interior. They did not have that amount of time. Legolas and Faramir and all those inside the Citadel could not spare a moment.

Frustrated and frightened, he knew he would have to act immediately. The Haradrim army needed to be stopped before it could descend the city and fortify the lower gates. With those portals closed, the men and Elves that had returned to save them would spend hours struggling to reach the Citadel. This last act of Holis' was one of sheer desperation, and it could quickly become the most damning.

They had to stop this.

But how? They were but two men, and one was lamed by an injured leg. They could not possibly hope to face the enemy. At best, they would be killed in a futile struggle. At worst, they would be captured, and with the king in his hands, Holis would never yield. With these desperate thoughts racing through his mind, he glanced around the street. He could barely see the Houses of Healing from this place. Soldiers were swarming it. And beyond that, just peeking over the curve of the road, was the edge of the roof of the grand royal stables.

The stables!

_Yes!_

There was suddenly no more question, no more doubt. A plan quickly formed in his mind. Surely it would prove perilous, and it seemed the chances of success were slim indeed. But his heart was certain this action, this moment, would avail him and deliver him to his army below. He was certain, and he was not afraid.

Amrothos seemed to understand what he intended without so much as a word of explanation. The young man's eyes followed his king's gaze to the stables. They did not look at each other, Amrothos slipping from the wall to stand behind his lord. "You needn't worry, sir," he said softly. There was something in his voice, creeping between the words to settle permanently in a previously youthful tone. Aragorn began to recognize it for what it was: strength. Bravery. A warrior's mettle. The boy had had it within him all along, but now it seemed real and true. Perhaps innocence had been lost in this nightmare. But what was gained was not always a lesser gift. "I will get that gate open," the lad breathed. "Go and bring forth the men. When you return, your path will be ready."

What Amrothos was proposing frightened him. That would be a dangerous task, and he was not aware of an easy way to accomplish it. He turned and regarded the young man dubiously. As integral as getting that gate open was to their success, he could not sacrifice his companion's life to their cause. "You cannot do such a thing alone," Aragorn declared decisively. "Ride down with me. When we return, we will fight until they open the gate."

"There will not be enough time," Amrothos argued, shaking his head. "You said it yourself, sir. They will kill Lord Faramir less you surrender."

The king stared at the other blankly a moment, and his eyes widened with a sickening realization. His pulse sped madly. He grabbed the boy's shoulder as if to jostle some sense into him. "I know what it is you plan," Aragorn whispered harshly, his gaze wild with surprise and fear, "but it is madness! They will kill you! We contend with no simple enemy! He will not take kindly to such a subterfuge!"

Amrothos, however, was adamant. His jaw was set, his chin lifted slightly, and his eyes were steely with unwavering resolution. Aragorn recognized such an expression immediately as he had seen it many times before upon the face of Imrahil. This boy, though once apparently meek, was very much his father's son. "There is no other way, my Lord." He stood tall, and his gaze glittered with the depths of his bravery. "If we mean to save those trapped inside the seventh gate, we cannot waste a moment. You must stop the army from descending the city, and I will open the gate. They will be confused, sir, to see the King of Gondor show himself. I doubt any of them will recognize the difference between you and me. That will earn us precious minutes. This is the only way!" The lad's voice rose on those last words with angry frustration, and then he paled with realization of what he was doing. He looked down. "Forgive me, my Liege, for it is not my place to demand you do aught. I have overstepped my bounds."

Aragorn watched the boy's stature slump. He smiled gingerly. "There are no bounds within which you must remain," the king quietly remarked, clasping his companion on the shoulder. "Were it not for you, this fight would have been lost long ago. You have been a king more than I of late." Amrothos lifted his head, his eyes widening with the compliment, color rushing back to his fair cheeks with a rosy flush. The strangeness of fate to place them together! In the darkest of hours, the lad had proved himself to be more than a capable warrior, to have an unwavering heart and a powerful mind. Holis could never have anticipated that his downfall would be wrought by the hands of a mere boy.  _There is strength yet in men,_  Aragorn thought proudly as he gazed upon the youth before him.  _There always will be._

Drawing a deep breath, the king closed his eyes briefly, drawing from a newly refreshed but ever-dwindling reserve of mettle.  _Elbereth, protect us,_  he prayed vehemently, knowing now only good fortune and steadfast strength would avail them.  _See us through this dark hour. There is light, and we will find it!_  Then he opened his eyes. They could do this. They would do this!

He looked to his companion. "The garb of a mere soldier will not suit our tasks," he commented softly. He shook his head slowly. "And perhaps they will not recognize your face, but they will know the Flame of the West. We must change. Quickly."

And so they did. In a few minutes' time, the two men had switched attire, stripping away the foul armor and black cloth. Aragorn now wore the surcoat of Dol Amroth upon his breast, covering his chain mail in rolling waves of smudged and dirty blue. Atop this he again donned the sable clothing of the Haradrim. He did not bother with the stinking, heavy armor. His own surcoat was too large for Amrothos, but he prayed the Haradrim would not notice such a thing. The king had left his plate mail in the house when they had originally acquired their disguises, and he cursed the choice now (though bringing it would have been ultimately impossible). Having that upon him, the silver breastplate blazing with the White Tree, would have truly lent gravity to their ruse, adding bulk to Amrothos' lanky stature. But they needed to make do with what they had. Finally, they traded swords. Aragorn wrapped Amrothos' sword belt about his waist, buckling the leather and tying it tight. The boy seemed awestruck as he held Andúril flat upon his palms, staring at its hilt. The sword was beautiful, long and majestic, and the king doubted his companion had ever held a weapon so mighty. Seeing the fearful innocence again emerge in Amrothos' placid mask, Aragorn laid a hand over the boy's filthy, white fingers that so tightly curled about the scabbard. "If you must, do not be afraid to use it," he commented softly, drawing Amrothos' gaze. "The blade is large, so lean into your swing. Do not fight it."

Swallowing nervously, the lad nodded. He took Andúril and secured it around his body. Satisfied, Aragorn turned and pressed his back to the building again. The army was beginning to move, marching down the street away from the seventh gate. A few companies were left behind, perhaps a hundred men guarding the final portal. He had no idea how many were yet inside the Citadel. The tentative rays of the sun glowed upon the snow on the road, twinkling as they lighted a path through the black, armored bodies to the stables just beyond.

He leaned back and set to fixing his head gear. Wrapping the cloth around his face, he spoke quickly. "Stay here. I will give you a signal when we are close. The horns will thrice blow long and hard, and then show yourself to them. Hide your face as long as possible. Give them no cause to harm you, Amrothos. Demand to see Emperor Holis. Surrender. I will not have your blood upon my hands."

The boy nodded jerkily, drawing his own cloak tighter about him. His pale countenance he hid behind wrappings of black, leaving only his eyes. They were wide, perhaps a bit tearful, but proud and strong. Aragorn glanced around the corner again. The street was chaotic with movement. Now was his chance. He looked back only once, meeting his steadfast companion's gaze. "I have faith in you," he whispered.

"And I you, my Lord," the lad returned. Aragorn felt his smile. "I will not fail you."

And with that, the king stepped out into the road. He clenched his hands into fists and began to run. The road was slick, but he never lost his balance or wavered in his step. His body was taut with apprehension, his heart rushing to feed his limbs with hot energy. His ragged breathing echoed inside his head. Then he heard the hoarse bellowing of the Haradrim officers. What had appeared to be some measure of order from a distance was hardly anything of the like. The enemy soldiers were apparently quite terrified and enraged that the Gondorian army had returned. Aragorn wondered what Holis had promised them. An easy victory? The spoils of war? He could not help but smile smugly to see them flounder. Yelling filled the afternoon air. As he approached, he noted that perhaps a third of the army struggling to march was stubbornly refusing to heed the orders of its superiors, screaming in that rough language for what Aragorn imagined to be recompense. He made his way to that area of pandemonium.

As he surged into the messy lines of men, he allowed himself to feel no fear. He would not be hampered by doubt or worry. He kept his eyes focused upon the stables, growing ever larger as he neared them, and he refused to slow his pace. He pushed his way through the unruly crowd, caring not as he was jostled and shoved back roughly. There was no point in secrecy now, no gain in subtlety. He was desperate to reach his friends, to see Éomer and Elladan and Elrohir, to find them safe. To know, after so many days of his own hellish weakness, that they were yet strong. With these desires driving him, pounding in his aching head and racing through his body, he fought to be free of the Haradrim. And when he was, he began to run again.

Fortune guided him, for the assembled army was so disorderly and blinded by panic that no one seemed to notice the lone figure swathed sable sprinting away. Breathing heavily, the ranger's light feet carried him instinctively over debris and snow, using the same path he and Amrothos had taken some time ago to escape. He pressed himself close to the buildings, using shadows to hide his movements. He slipped into the darkness, leveraging years of experience hunting in the black of night to aid him as he approached the stables. Adjacent to these buildings were the great Houses of Healing. Aragorn could only hope the enemy had not hurt any of the wounded. A few Haradrim guarded the area, but their attention was obviously diverted to the mayhem about the gate. An officer in charge of the detail glanced toward the army with wide, worried eyes, his gaze skittish and clearly nervous. Aragorn pressed himself into the shadows beside the stables, lowering his body to hide beside some barrels. His patience was nigh lost to him, but he forced himself to be still. He could not pass by them unnoticed, for they stood at the stables' massive entrance, and he certainly could not fight them all. That would only result in his capture. He needed to wait, though the idea was torturous. He knew the commander was terrified and would be unable to hold his post.

A few minutes of holding his breath and struggling to remain hidden rewarded him greatly. The man, with darting eyes and a sweat-covered face, buckled under the pressure and cried an order to his troops. All but two left. Aragorn smiled grimly at his luck, delaying until the Haradrim were further down the road. Grabbing Amrothos' blade, he pulled it loose an inch or so, testing the grip in his experienced hands. With a cry, he launched himself from the shadows, twisting his body to turn his attack sharply to his right. The blade came free from its scabbard, and he brought it to bear with a mighty swing upward. The man closed to him could only grimace in terror before finding the king's sword in his gut. Aragorn moved instantly, pulling his weapon free and ramming it into the chest of the next man. Both fell to the ground dead. Neither had even had a chance to scream.

Panting slightly, Aragorn wiped his blade on the coat of one man and then returned it to its sheath. He made his way inside the stables. They were very dark, the torches typically lit and fastened to the huge beams now idle. The king grabbed one of the torches that was ablaze near the entrance and stepped down the corridor of stalls. His rushed breathing was greatly amplified in the silence. Once again, the Haradrim were proving themselves to be rather poor soldiers. The grand stables were utterly vacant, without guard or patrol. Aragorn did not know whether to laugh at their mistakes or sob with his relief, so he simply sucked in his breath and held it within his throbbing chest. He began to jog, holding the torch aloft and slightly ahead of him to light his path. The stables were so completely quiet that for a moment he feared the Haradrim had removed the horses in the last days. That might explain why the area was devoid of guards…

But then he heard a whinny above the clamor of his heart and the thud of his feet. Clenching his jaw and narrowing his gaze, he continued on through the darkness, turning a corner and heading instinctively to the large rear portions of the stables where the mounts of the lords usually resided. Many of the stalls he rushed past were empty, the horses having been taken by the men of Gondor when the army had left so long ago. Their vacancy was somehow unnerving, but Aragorn spared nothing more than a glance and a thought. There was no time for regret.

Finally he reached his destination. He saw white ears above the wooden walls of one of the stalls, and he pulled the cloth from his face as he crept forward, abruptly losing his nerve. Arod stood there, the white horse very still. His black eyes were focused upon Aragorn, gauging his every move critically. The king released a slow breath. He could acutely feel every second slip away from him, but somehow the passage of those precious moments seemed insignificant now. So long ago he had stood as such, looking at Arod and watching the beautiful horse settle him with his fury. Like his master, the horse said much without words, and his eyes saw all. Aragorn felt weak before him, grief escaping the bounds of his resolution to flood his body with weariness and his eyes with tears. It seemed a great time passed while horse and man stared at each other. Then Arod snorted, tossing his head slightly before lowering it. He approached Aragorn and nuzzled him.

Aragorn sighed softly, leaning into Arod, stroking the horse's neck absently. The king closed his eyes, hot tears escaping to snake down his face. The king set the torch into a sconce before sinking into Arod's soft chest. "I will get him back," Aragorn murmured. "I swore this to you once before, and I failed. But I will not do so again. I will save him." Arod whickered softly, jabbing his cold nose to Aragorn's wet cheek. The king could not help but smile faintly.

Then he heard shouting. His heart leapt into his throat, and he ripped around. His eyes widened as the sound of running feet echoed through the stables. Men were yelling, their angry calls shattering the silence. Aragorn gasped. He had wasted whatever time had been granted him. Obviously the enemy had noticed the two dead guards outside the entrance. He could not afford to find Roheryn now. He glanced once down the dark corridor, knowing his mighty warhorse was further away from him and wishing he had the time to locate him. The situation was turning rapidly perilous, and he was not sure Arod would carry him. The white beast had always been particular, permitting only Legolas to ride and care for him. His carelessness had deprived him of any other option, however, and his panicked fingers pulled open the padlock door. The hinges squealed shrilly, alerting the men to his location, and Aragorn winced. Arod stepped back, snorting angrily as the king invaded his space. Aragorn glanced about frantically, but there was no tack to be seen. He cursed his rapidly souring luck. Arod moved about nervously, grunting and trying to maneuver his large body in the small stall to be as far from Aragorn as possible. Clearly, though the horse had offered his peace, he had no interest in birthing a new relationship between them. There was simply no time for this! Aragorn grabbed Arod about the neck, his eyes fiery as he approached the irritated horse. "I will save him," he repeated in Elvish, "but you must help me. Bear me now, or all is lost. Please, Arod. Help me." He met the horse's gaze once more, refusing to look away until he saw the reservation flee those dark, depthless eyes. He shook his head and whispered desperately, " _Please._ "

The horse finally seemed to understand for he stilled his angry movements. With a shuffle of hooves upon hay, the intelligent beast dropped to his front knees, lowering himself so that the man might mount him. Aragorn wasted not a moment, swinging his body onto the horse's strong back. Arod was standing again before the king could even properly right himself, and Aragorn had to lurch forward and grab the horse's gray mane to maintain his posture. Fear jolted through him as Arod lunged from the stall. Elves were gifted with unwavering poise and balance, and they could ride even the most fiery of horses at incredible speeds without any sort of saddle or bridle. Aragorn had seen Legolas and his brothers do it countless times, and every instance amazed him. He, however, was hardly so gifted, and though he could manage to ride bareback at slow speeds, Arod was tearing through the stables at a frenzied gallop. Aragorn swallowed a cry in his throat as the horse burst through the group of Haradrim gathered about the entrance. Terror washed over him like the chill in the air when he spied the wet and slick ground the horse was blindly rushing towards. But, as he was constantly reminded, Arod was no simple creature. His hooves struck the snow with a splatter of wetness and white, but he did not slip. With grace and power unparalleled, he ran out into the street.

Aragorn leaned back slightly from Arod's neck, his fists still balled in the horse's thick mane, his thighs pressed tightly to the white flanks for support. Surrounding them now were the surprised faces of the detail sent to investigate the ruckus in the stables. Arod reared a bit, kicking with his front legs and nearly spilling Aragorn from his smooth back. The king remained upright, however, and he clenched his teeth. His hand fell to the hilt of his blade, and he drew it. The Southrons who had crowded about them stepped back slightly, but Aragorn gave them no time to recover from their surprise. He slashed down with his sword, catching one the soldiers across the face. He kicked at another, and Arod's hoof slammed into the chest of a man, sending him spinning to the side with a wild cry. The king fought wildly, cutting at whoever neared them. Amrothos' blade was covered in red, and sweat stung Aragorn's eyes as he labored to free them from this dire situation.

Distant shouts grew louder and more defined. More men were coming. If they were to escape at all, they needed to do so now. One of the soldiers yelling madly at them swung a wicked spear, and the blade sliced through Arod's left rear quarter. The horse gave a vicious cry and landed a massive, bone-crushing kick upon the attacker. Aragorn glanced behind at the injury. It bled, but it did not seem to be very deep. However, it was testament to how outnumbered they were, and how little time they had. Digging his sword into the neck of one last soldier, Aragorn wrenched himself free and cried, "Run, Arod!  _Run!_ "

The horse needed no other direction. Eyes blazing and nostrils flaring, Arod reared again, kicking wildly at those before him. The action was not meant to injure their attackers, Aragorn quickly realized. Rather, the soldiers blocking their path recoiled in fear, stepping back to avoid the dangerous hooves and muscled legs and revealing an exit. Arod took it immediately, jumping forward and racing down the street towards the sixth gate.

Aragorn laughed as a burst of joy and relief claimed him, lowering his blade and leaning close to the horse's head once more as they tore down the road. The wind pushed at him, the furious screams of the army behind him growing fainter and fainter as they fled. He could scarcely believe that he had managed to elude the enemy army! He swallowed the pride welling up in his throat. Far too much lay before him for such premature elation. Still, he could not help but permit himself this bit of joy. He could not stand to cast aside this warmth. How accustomed he had become to helplessness and despair! This tiny victory, as seemingly minute and trivial as it was, fed his heart with much needed confidence. This war was theirs to win, and he would never consider surrender again.

The sixth gate was ahead, and thankfully it was open. A few men stood guard, but they could do little besides jumping out of the way as the horse and rider thundered closer. Aragorn glanced over his shoulder. The men were screaming at him, presumably ordering that he stop. Arrows were launched by Haradrim that had assumed posts atop the ramparts, but these attacks came too late, many missing their marks and digging themselves into the snow upon the road. Yet the men behind them made no move to chase after the fleeing ranger. Aragorn had assumed they would not. The Haradrim had far more important concerns than one escaping man. They could delegate neither the men nor the time to capture him, as both were now needed in the coming conflict. The king smiled grimly as he looked forward again.

Arod charged onward, bearing his rider down further and further through Minas Tirith. The racing rhythm of hooves pounding the stone road seemed to echo through the entire city, filling the air once deathly still and silent with despair and defeat with the roar of hope. As the horse ran, so did the man's mind. It was quickly occurring to him that, even with his fortunate escape from the higher levels, it would still take a considerable amount of time for their forces to reach the Citadel if their adversaries managed to erect defenses upon these lower gates. He could not allow that to happen.

A thought came to him. It seemed bleak at best, but there was no other choice. He detested abandoning such a thing to chance or mere faith. The houses around him were dark, many damaged by battle. They seemed empty, devoid of the families that had once filled the city with hustle and life. And even if they were not, it felt a fantastic flight of insanity to believe that the people willing now to lift a sword. The city was too battered, too brutalized, and so many had fled to the seventh circle. Those that remained had either been killed or cowered now in the shadows of their desolate homes.

Still, despite the bleak prospect, his body was already moving. He pulled lightly on Arod's mane, leaning upward to shift his weight and inform the horse that he wished to stop. Arod was not pleased with his rider's decision, a fact he made abundantly clear by grunting and snorting hotly and tossing his head. The king brought the horse about, holding his sword tightly. The road was a picture of death and disaster. The sheen of snow did little to hide the debris and bodies littering the once clean, peaceful area. Blood stained some places a hideous red, and soot from the fires below caked on the rooftops. If these poor folk could, they needed to join him now. This was their last chance.

"People of Gondor!" he bellowed. "Citizens of Minas Tirith! Salvation is come! Draw up your swords and fight! We are not lost!" Arod skittered, growing more nervous by each moment spent lingering. Aragorn's shouts echoed down the quiet street, and the king was alarmed by the volume of his voice as it echoed off the still and dark buildings. He glanced around frantically, but there was no movement, no sign at all that his words had been heard. He grunted fearfully, but he refused to submit to defeat. "Fight now! Fight for your country, for your families, for your freedom! Stand with me!  _Stand with me!_ "

Nothing. Raw emotion constricted his chest; he could not honestly say what it was. Rage. Grief. Despair. There was no time to consider it, though. The Haradrim were coming, and he could not be caught by them. He urged Arod into a gallop once more, and the horse was happy to oblige him. They ran down the streets, hooves thundering and hearts pounding. Words escaped his mouth. Words borne of sheer desperation. He feared he could not do this without the aid of his people. He  _knew_ he could not. "Come forth and fight them! Our army has returned! Come forth and make this stand!" His words were lost to the wind racing by him, the gale tearing the sounds from his lips and spreading it about the desolate streets. He did not look to see if his summons succeeded in drawing whoever remained from the safety of the houses. "Fight! The end has come! Rally to this cause! Fight! Rally to the end!"

Through the destroyed third gate he charged, and, turning sharply left, he continued to descend the mountain. Here the air stank of burned wood and flesh, and he could see the fire had devoured much of the towers about the open gate and its ramparts. A few of the buildings had suffered damage, roofs eaten through by bitter flames. Upon these streets the debris was greatly increased, for the battle had been far more brutal here. Arod slowed his pace to avoid bodies, abandoned furniture and goods, and fallen stone. The horse nimbly picked a path through the wreckage. Many lay dead, citizens and soldiers alike. They were but a blur to Aragorn. His voice was hoarse as he cried again, "Stand against them! This war is not yet lost! Fight now!"

He passed the second gate. Now he could hear fighting, the distinctive ring of weapons and armor as two opposing forces clashed reaching his ears. He found he could not breathe, terror clawing at his innards, as Arod galloped down the final streets towards the Gateway. The world closed in about him, shadows covering the periphery, and he could only look ahead. His eyes watered when the wind blasted them, but he did not blink. Hope made him jittery and weak, his limbs liquid and impotent in their feeble grasp upon the horse. Everything would come to this moment, this instance, this one fate. If the Gateway was not open, if the Haradrim guarded it still, all would be lost. There was no way he alone could contend with any sort of opposition. Surely Gimli had not failed in his task! The Gateway had to be open! It had to be!

And, by the grace of the Valar, it was.

Down the final street Arod ran, and when he turned the corner and charged into the massive courtyard, Aragorn saw the path from Minas Tirith stretching through the Pelennor. The two heavy doors, ornately carved with the guardians of old, stood wide apart. The king choked on a sob, his mount stopping momentarily to behold the sight before them. Nothing had ever seemed so beautiful or perfect. He felt unworthy to have been blessed with such fortune. Relief made his head spin dizzily, and he clung to Arod's strong form for fear of simply succumbing to the sheer power of his joy. Euphoria was grand and warm, chasing away the miseries of winter and war. He could not believe it. The way was open. There was still a chance!

Then the ground shook mightily, and time jerked forward. Arod stepped gracefully in the snow, trying to maintain his balance as the stone beneath his hooves vibrated. The buildings around them shuddered violently for a long moment before ceasing their quivering. Sounds and sights and smells rushed back upon the king, overwhelming his stressed mind, and he stared wide-eyed at the scene around him. A great battle was occurring at the gate. The Haradrim had left behind some force to guard the Gateway, and those companies were now engaged in a horrendous melee with a troupe of furious Dwarves. Men were spilling inside the Gateway, men clad in the gold, greens, and reds of Rohan. Those of Gondor joined them, charging with a loud cry into their city to reclaim what was taken. Swords clashed together, bows hummed with power, and men fell. The Haradrim were outnumbered as more and more men entered through the newly opened Gateway. Arrows flew inside the courtyard, arrows expertly fletched with white feathers. The Elves. They were approaching as well, their dirty faces grim as they entered the lost city. Shouts filled the air. The cacophony was incredible.

Aragorn recovered from his surprise and clenched his teeth. He gently nudged Arod forward with his heels. The horse resisted a moment, clearly unwilling to leap into battle with a stranger upon his back, but he eventually relented and charged into the fray. Amrothos' sword became coated in red as the king slashed and sliced at the Southrons unfortunate enough to be left at the Gateway. His blade cut the arm from one before digging a gruesome hole into the gut of another. Once again the ground shook, and this time Aragorn was at such a vantage as to see what caused it. Outside the Riders of Rohan raced about the snow-laden fields, contending with the oliphaunts that had been stationed as guards outside the city walls. With them rode another force, clad in dark colors, but Aragorn could not offer them more than a glance. Another hulking beast collapsed to the ground, its leathery skin dotted with innumerable arrows, and the earth quaked with the force of the impact.

The king turned from the awesome sight, hearing the shrill scream of an approaching adversary. He twisted about upon Arod's back, smacking his blade against the wickedly serrated edge of the Southron's weapon. The men had not expected his victim to move so rapidly, and he paid for his ignorance dearly. With a mighty swipe and a piercing ring, Aragorn pulled his sword away, twirled it, and stabbed his attacker. The man was soon lost in the mess of the dead and wounded.

In a matter of minutes, it was all over. The Haradrim had stood no chance against the swell of Gondor's forces. Almost all lay dead, their corpses littering the once pristine courtyard before the Gateway. Aragorn panted, giving the scene a cursory glance, struggling still to comprehend how quickly things had turned in their favor.

"The king!" The cry stole his attention. "The king has come! The king!" He turned, spying a Dwarf, who he thought to be called Gimble, gesturing towards him. The stout creature's stern face was now alight with obvious jubilation. "Lord Gimli! The king!"

From the mesh of warriors strenuously combating each other, one pivoted at the exclamation. Rusty red hair peeked from beneath a familiar battle helmet. Gimli kicked the man he had recently dispatched away from him, his gaze flying wildly about until it settled on his friend. Then the Dwarf gave a whoop of elation, his filthy countenance splitting in a huge smile. He jogged over to Aragorn, pushing through the rapidly thinning battle. "Aragorn!" he shouted, his voice laden with relief. The king grinned widely himself, so thrilled to see his dear friend well. He slipped from Arod's back, sliding Amrothos' blade back into its sheath, and fell to his knees. Gimli lumbered over to him, limping slightly, and let loose a great, rough laugh as he embraced his friend.

The Dwarf squeezed him mightily, his strong arms clasped so tightly about Aragorn's chest that the man thought his ribs would crack under the pressure. Gimli was guffawing joyously. He smelled positively rank from his march through Minas Tirith's sewers, but Aragorn found his could not care less. It felt wonderful to his bruised body and tortured spirit to be with a friend again, to know he was well. "Oh, bless you, laddie! I had so feared you were dead!"

"Thank you, Gimli," Aragorn murmured, squeezing his eyes shut against the rush of tears and burying his face into his friend's armored shoulder. "You did it. You saved us. We were nearly lost…" he moaned, unable to articulate the depths of what he had witnessed and what he now knew.

Horses were coming into the Gateway, the clopping of hooves against the stones steady as a large group of men entered. At their forefront was Éomer. The young king of Rohan's severe expression all but melted into a grand, trembling smile at seeing Gimli and Aragorn. The ranger stood, patting his Dwarf companion firmly on the shoulder. Firefoot snorted, whipping his head, as his rider dismounted. Éomer shook his head helplessly, as relieved and beggared for words as Aragorn. "I worried we would not reach you in time," he breathlessly admitted. "I pray we are not too late."

But Aragorn would not stand for such thoughts now, swept away in the rivers of happiness washing the filth of despair from his trembling spirit. He grabbed Éomer's arm firmly, noting the young man appeared worn and weary, his strong face coated in grime. "How did you know to return?" Aragorn asked softly.

"It was trap," came another voice. Through the gathering crowd of soldiers, a lithe, dark-haired form approached. Behind him, another, strikingly similar in face and stature. Elladan and Elrohir. The former gave a sorrowful smile. Aragorn jammed his teeth into his lip to prevent its quivering as he stepped forward and embraced the twins. Each wrapped their arms around the man they had long ago learned to love as kin. A moment passed in which the three were still, each taken by the sheer relief made possible by knowing brothers survived.

Elladan was the first to pull away. The wind swept by them, sending the length of his dark hair flowing. "I am so sorry, Estel," he murmured in Elvish. "We did not see their lie until it was too late. We failed you."

Aragorn shook his head. "Nay," he countered, "hope remains." He glanced beyond the shoulders of his friends and observed the grand force assembling in the courtyard, spreading out into Pelennor Fields beyond where his eye could see. The Elves neared, Valandil gracefully dismounting his horse. However, the king knew that they were burdened by exhaustion and grief. He began to realize, gazing upon the gathered soldiers, that this was less than half of the force that had left Minas Tirith all those days ago. Half the men he had sent on his horrible mission of bloody vengeance had not returned. Yet the force he had spied upon sixth circle had been immense, thousands strong. "How is this possible?" he murmured absently.

Éomer drew his astonished attention. "It would not be," he answered, removing his helmet, "were it not for a stroke of fair fortune. Barely two day's march southwest of the White City we were ambushed. Taken by surprise, the Easterlings cornered us against the mountains, sweeping north from the Haradwaith to trap us in a barren land with no effective means of escape. Immediately we knew ill had come to Minas Tirith, for the force that opposed us was no band of rebel fighters. The bulk of the Easterling army had confronted us. Surely they had laid in wait, deep in the clutches of Haradwaith's hidden lands, beyond the eyes and ears of our intelligence. The fight quickly turned ill. We struggled to break through their lines and return to the White City, my Lord, but we could not." Éomer smiled faintly. "Yet aid came to us from a least expected source, and we pushed them back into the wasteland from whence they came."

There was a flutter of flags in the wind. Aragorn looked up, and he gasped, unable to hide his surprise. The standards of Arnor, dark and magnificent, glowed in the sun. The crowd parted, allowing the rear of the army to come closer. The Dúnedain had ridden south! He saw his kin, clad in black and silver armor, proud and powerful. They had obviously come to save Gondor's army from destruction in Haradwaith, yet his astounded thoughts were too scattered to understand. How was such a thing possible? How could word have reached them?

And then he looked down. "Peregrin Took, my Liege, appearing as ordered."

For a long moment, he did not make sense of the words. The sight of the Hobbit kneeling in the snow at his feet, bowing before him, failed to elicit any sort of response from his shocked and muddled mind. He simply stared, mouth slightly agape, paralyzed by the sheer impossibility of this all. The small creature was clad in the garb of a Guard of the Citadel, his fine, black cloak dipping onto the snow like liquid shadow. Pippin looked up, the silver tree stretching across his chest, the limbs lovingly embracing the large heart of a small body. Then he smiled faintly, obviously perturbed by his king's stasis. "Aragorn?"

Finally Aragorn remembered and realized. The first council, so very many weeks ago, he had requested the Hobbits be summoned. Riders had been sent forth to the Shire, seeking the service of the lone Knight of Gondor in the realm of the Halflings. He had all but forgotten! His own words echoed through his head.  _"You would be surprised if you knew of the things a Hobbit can do."_  His lips pulled into an amazed smile, and he laughed joyously. Down to his knees he fell, and he swept the little creature into his arms. Pippin laughed as well, his joy spilling into the air with his usual wily and simple fervor. Aragorn squeezed the Hobbit against him, tears escaping his closed eyes. To feel the small form in his embrace, to know they had allies still in this dark hour… His heart shuddered in relief.

Meriadoc Brandybuck had emerged from the line, wearing armor befitting a squire of Rohan. Aragorn glanced up, catching the other Hobbit's gaze. Merry's eyes widened and a great grin claimed his young face. Aragorn released Pippin, shoving his pride aside and leaving the glistening tears upon his cheeks as he hugged Merry in turn. When both of the amazing creatures stood before him, he shook his head. "I do not understand how you did this," he said softly, "but I am forever in your debt for summoning my kin. This day would have been dark indeed had not the strength of Hobbits again prevailed."

Both grinned with the weighty compliment, glancing at each other. "Not so a big a thing, Strider," Merry declared, looking up to Éomer. "We have a duty to you. Simple as that."

"And you did it marvelously!" Gimli remarked. "Come here, you rascals, you!" He opened his arms, spreading them in preparation for a massive hug. Merry and Pippin were happy to oblige him, throwing themselves into the Dwarf's chest. A chorus of laughing and talking resounded as the three joyously greeted each other. Aragorn watched and chuckled fondly. "A grand adventure, surely. It will need telling, when time permits!"

 _Time._  Everything suddenly slammed back into Aragorn's head, battering the happiness from his heart and leaving him faint. The Citadel. Faramir. Arwen and Éowyn. Legolas. They were still in danger! The others about him seemed to recognize the paling of his face as a sign of something dire indeed. Imrahil was the first to speak, shaking his head. His eyes were very grave, his jaw clenched. "What of the Citadel, my Liege? Where are the Guards, the forces we left behind?" Imrahil grimaced. "Why are you dressed with my sigil?"

Aragorn was moving, seeing the worry in the prince's eyes and recalling the boy he had left in danger. Arod patiently stood behind him, and he stepped to the horse, panic stealing his breath. "We must go upward, and quickly! They are all in grave danger! Holis has taken the seventh gate, and he will kill them all unless we stop him!"

That simple declaration was enough to end the few precious minutes of joy. All at once the courtyard was alive with talk, orders echoing off of the buildings as the men moved rapidly into ranks. Elladan and Elrohir were atop horses quickly, the latter speaking with Valandil in hushed tones while his twin directed the Elves. The Dúnedain were assembling, orders echoing out of the Gateway and down the fields to the men outside. Dol Amroth's banners fluttered as what remained of its forces congregated behind their lord. Éomer cried, "Riders of Rohan, reform the line!"

"Archers at the forefront!"

"Hurry, men! Hurry!"

"Rally to the king!"

"Aragorn!" The ranger, having pulled himself atop Arod, looked down. Gimli stood at Arod's side, his jaw set and his eyes as dark as night. The man reached down and grabbed the stout warrior's forearm. Bearing his teeth with the strain, he yanked upward, heaving Gimli atop Arod's back. The horse snorted, annoyed with both the increased weight and the addition of the creature he found most disagreeable. The Dwarf, however, was far too stricken with anger and fear to care. Their forces were nearly ready, Éomer bringing his riders to the forefront, halting Firefoot beside Arod. The king's eyes were trained on the road ahead. If the amount of death and damage disturbed him, it was not apparent in his fiery scowl.

Yet something was. "Aragorn," he said softly, keeping his gaze forward. "Is my sister well?"

The question drove a spike of ice into the king's belly. "I know not," he admitted shamefully, unable to lie. Éomer did not answer, his jaw set, but the pain and terror in his eyes was enough to speak of his hurt.

Merry was perched behind Éomer on Firefoot. Unlike the young king, his face was white and he was mortified at the destruction laid upon the once majestic White City. Aragorn expected the Hobbit to speak of it, but it was Gimli who chose to venture the question he feared the most. "What of Faramir? Surely that fool did not endanger further himself by fighting…"

The king did not answer. Another voice filled his head. Pippin asked from his position in front of Imrahil, "And Legolas?"

Aragorn could truly take no more. Amrothos' sword came free from its scabbard, and he held it above his head. He directed Arod to trot slightly before the army, and the horse reared back slightly. "Men of the West! Allies of old! Let us take back this city! Now we strike the evil that has poisoned our future! This dream will be ours again!"

An enormous roar filled the courtyard, a cheer bolstered by renewed faith and a desire to see justice restored. The sound rose upward to the sky, shaking the city as it echoed, proclaiming the coming of the end. Weary soldiers were uniting for the final battle. Aragorn did not know if they would stand successful upon its completion, but he was certain of one thing. As terror and grief and hope beat in his blood, he knew he would save his family or he would die trying.

"Sound the charge," he declared to Éomer, his steely eyes centered upon the street that would lead them up the mountain. "Three times, with lips upon every horn."

Certainly Éomer did not understand the peculiar order, but he followed it even so. In the wake of the powerful roar came the vibrating thunder of the battle horns. Their timbre raced through the vacant streets, screaming their ascent, blasting away the ghosts and shadows. Upward it echoed, blaring a warning to those that opposed them. They were coming. This was the ultimate charge against the remains of a nightmare.

Once. Twice. Three times the horns blew, long and loud. With that, they were moving, racing up the White City now stained with blood and black. The sun shone favorably upon them, washing them with warm rays of hope. Yet the clouds still crowded upon the Tower of Ecthelion, bathing the Citadel's pearly beauty in repulsive darkness. There the wind still howled and the ice still strangled. There the shadow remained steadfast in a flood of light, holding tightly to that which it desired the most. Forbidding and terrifying, it marked the final torment.

The last stronghold of evil.


	39. The Very Sickness

It was not until the army had passed the fourth gate that it began to occur to Aragorn that he had been hasty in allowing Amrothos' signal to resound through the city. The inquisitions of his friends about the status of those yet inside the Citadel had burned him terribly, filling with an undeniable need to simply act. The minutes spent rejoicing at the army's return left him slighted, and, burdened by the repulsive knowledge of what likely went on inside his home, he had moved forward with their ramshackle plan without second thought. Again, his impulsiveness would take lives. He had been brash, and now he was dreadfully worried.

They were yet two levels from the seventh gate. If Amrothos had surrendered himself already, he would need to somehow keep that portal open until they arrived. That seemed a distinctly difficult prospect and a wild chance. The enemy would rush to close the gate and seal away their final defenses. Above all else, Aragorn could not allow that to happen. The seventh gate was very large and nearly impossible to cross without the proper siege equipment, which they, of course, lacked. If that gate was closed before they could enter, those inside the Citadel were lost.

And all of this, of course, would matter even less if they had to contend with the Haradrim army. They had been heading towards the fifth gate, obviously intending to close it and struggle to keep it as such. The king could not honestly say what would become of their charge should they encounter this resistance. Surely they had far a greater amount of men to their cause, but, as they had done for days, the Haradrim would employ Minas Tirith's own defenses to their use. The war was over. Of that Aragorn was certain. Eventually, with the help of the Dúnedain and Rohan, Gondor would triumph over the invaders and expel them from its capital. But Holis was simply too cruel and cunning to easily let them win. The casualties would prove devastating if this battle continued as long as Aragorn feared it might.

 _Never,_  Aragorn thought angrily, his eyes viciously glaring as the road flew under Arod's feet.  _We have not come so far only to be blocked now!_  Time was of the utmost importance. They needed speed, fleeting swords, and quick thoughts. The men, tired as they were, were keeping good pace with the horses as the army advanced up the devastated city. Still, they were covering ground at a far lesser rate than horses might do alone. "Riders of Rohan, with me!" he cried, turning about in his saddle momentarily. "Hurry!"

Elegantly, as though the display of a mere practice formation, the riders separated from the thick of the infantry. Along the sidewalks they raced, running towards their king to answer his summons. Aragorn returned his gaze forward, satisfied despite his growing panic. The head column of riders, perhaps fifty strong in all, broke from those on foot and began up the winding roads of Minas Tirith at a much faster pace. The city was not designed to allow such a crazed ascent any measure of ease, for the path was narrow and twisted about often. Aragorn found his desperate, frantic mind and aching heart cursing the very designs that had kept the Haradrim from reaching the Citadel earlier. What a cruelty of fate to be forced to overcome one's own defenses. Every second that escaped them was one less Faramir might live or Legolas might remain hidden, the tiny ticks of time ripping slowly and rhythmically at Aragorn's flesh.  _Faster! We must go faster!_

The thunder of many galloping horses consumed all sound, leaving only its booming echo. The city was silent save for the approach of its final hope, the weary, damaged people holding a woeful breath in prayer for this last offensive measure. As the road to the fifth gate grew less cluttered with the dead and other wreckage, the cavalry's run gained more speed. Finally it reached its destination.

The fifth gate was completely and utterly vacant.

Aragorn shook his head slightly, his scanning eyes wide with disbelief. Yet, even as he looked again, he realized there was naught at the open, battered doors but the very same bodies and debris he had before flown over upon Arod's back. The Haradrim had not come! Despite his panic, his jumbled mind tried to spend a moment wondering at this. Perhaps they had merely been delayed. Perhaps they yet marched towards this point, failing to anticipate the speed their opponents had been able to conjure. Perhaps… Arod snorted and tossed his head angrily, and Gimli grunted behind him. "Why do you pause?" the Dwarf demanded roughly. "Go!"

Forward they went, though once more Aragorn did not understand the machinations of a fate that had only now decided to avail them. The open gate rumbled as the horses charged through it and then made a steep, sudden left, continuing to ascend the White City. Aragorn pressed his knees tighter to Arod's flank, listening to the horse breathe as the animal ran. Closer he leaned to Arod's head, Gimli's hands tight upon his waist. The cold wind snapped at them like stinging whips upon flesh. The king could not think anymore, his mind lost in a maelstrom of emotion. Only the need for swiftness pulsed through him, devouring all else in a heated wave of anguish.  _Run, Arod! Run like you never have before! Run for Legolas' life!_

There was noise ahead, the sounds of shouting and screaming rising above the resounding rumble of the running horses. Aragorn recognized the sounds for what they were instantly, and his blood ran cold within him.  _Battle._  Ahead people were fighting, and from the sound of it, Aragorn knew one side was losing horrendously. Yet the king could think no more on this. With the passage of a few seconds they came upon what lay before them.

Surprise rattled through Aragorn, leaving him shaking. Once again, he could scarcely believe what his overwhelmed senses were straining to show him. A massive battle raged upon the street between the Haradrim army and the people of the city. As impossible as it seemed, the denizens had come together to stand against the enemy. Even though he had called for such an action, truly he did not think they would follow his command! But they had done more than simply emerge from their homes and rally to this final fight. Blocking the street now was a large barrier of wreckage and furniture. The men, most of which bearing swords and spears, had clearly dragged what they could from their homes to block the advance of the enemy. This wall of wood was hardly complete, but it had done much to prevent the Haradrim from descending the city.

The left side of the road was open. The men who had ventured forth struggled to defend it, but there were few against a black onslaught. Like water pushing through a cracked, dilapidated dam, the Southrons were spilling past the ramshackle barricade. Swords were cutting through the air, slicing into unprotected flesh, and these brave souls fell. That horrific fact was enough to spur Aragorn into action. "Stand aside, men!" he called to those that remained fighting. "Riders, go forth!"

The citizens, their plain clothes covered in soot and blood, turned at their lord's cry. Faces locked in terror suddenly broke with elation, and a cry of joy and relief filled the air. The chaos parted as the men abandoned their fight, pushing their meager force behind the feeble barrier. The Haradrim who had been fighting the resistant citizens immediately used the moment to their favor, charging through the narrow opening with a hoarse cheer. Their elation was short-lived, however, and the forefront of their charge stopped short, eyes widening and faces paling. They could do no more as the legs of the horses crushed them.

Aragorn swung wildly with his bloodied blade, his face tightly wound into an angry scowl as he fought. Behind him Gimli howled his anger, his axe dripping as he slammed it into the spear of an attacker. Arod hardly slowed his charge, leading the column of horses as they plowed through the Haradrim. The white stallion, his lean form taut with fury and power, did more damage to the invaders than either man or Dwarf. His muscular legs kicked into the fragile bodies of many, crushing armor and bone with sickening thuds and cracks. Behind them the others fought, swords singing and bows thrumming, as the Gondorian force wreaked havoc upon the Haradrim. Arod pushed his way further through the throng of surprised men. The banners of the Rohirrim soon intermingled with those of the Haradrim as the Riders spread across the street, battling the offenders. The Haradrim quickly realized what had happened, and panic set over them. The Gondorian army was not far behind the cavalry, pushing through the fifth gate and effectively making any further march impossible. The Haradrim had no choice but to retreat.

And, with a frantic cry of their officers, they did.

Aragorn yanked his sword free from the belly of a man bearing a blood-soaked dagger. His hands were covered in gooey red, and he nearly lost his grip on his sword as it met tough resistance coming free. When it did, he leaned up. The shouts of the enemy commanders were loud and, though indecipherable to him, blatantly obvious. He could not permit them to flee and reinforce the higher gates!

An order was not necessary, though. Éomer gripped Firefoot's reigns tightly, wheeling the massive gray horse about. Merry stabbed at a Southron attempting to slash at the horse's flank. "Riders," he cried, his deep tenor rising above the din, "to the Keep!"

"Go, lad," came Gimli's breathless demand in his ear, and Aragorn was all too willing to heed it. He pressed his thighs tighter about Arod, nudging the horse to pick a path through the chaos. Arod grunted, his lithe form twisting as he reluctantly did just that, kicking and fighting to be clear of the men. "Forsaken beast! Be mindful of those upon you!" the Dwarf snapped, holding tighter to Aragorn as Arod veered suddenly. The king smiled weakly. Though Legolas required no tack to ride his horse, the Elf often used it all the same for Gimli's comfort. Now the stout creature was truly struggling to maintain a precarious position. "Right, Aragorn!"

The king leaned on Arod to direct him to the opposite side of the street where the conglomeration of men and wreckage was not so terribly dense. Arod breathed loudly, lifting his head so that his mane blew in Aragorn's face, as he turned sharply to avoid a group of Haradrim scrambling to run back towards the Citadel. In abandoning that path, however, a new obstruction appeared almost immediately, and this one they would not have time to step around. Aragorn's breath locked in his chest, his heart sinking fantastically quickly into his belly, as he saw the overturned cart directly in front of them. They would surely hit it! But before he could even register the thought, Arod was leaping, his muscular rear legs flexing mightily as he jumped. The long, white body stretched as they crossed over the top of the tipped vehicle. A breath later Arod struck the stone road with an impact rough enough to jolt Aragorn's very bones. Gimli gave a loud, rough cry, his face slamming into Aragorn's back as they landed. Arod was running again as though nothing at all had interrupted his pace. Gimli groaned. "Foul creature! Never again will I allow myself to be pulled atop you! Never!"

Some part of Aragorn not drowning in terror and worry doubted very much that was true.

"Forward!" Éomer shouted, raising his spear and gesturing towards the road leading up towards the sixth gate. Most of the horses had cleared the thick of the army, though a few lingered, either wounded or unable to pass the mess of soldiers. Gondor's forces were now fast approaching, Aragorn noted with grim satisfaction, and all too quickly the infantry would meet the Haradrim and halt their fevered retreat. Already the Elves were bounding up and over the barricade the citizens had constructed, and arrows were whizzing through the air. "Quickly!" Every ounce of fear the young king held for his sister's fate was in his tone. " _Forward!_ "

Aragorn leaned closer to Arod and bade that he run faster, the soft Elvish inaudible to all but the horse. This was the last portion of their very long journey, and he wished with every bit of his spirit for the strength to endure what lay ahead. The riders quickly reformed a column, their motions guided by years and years of experience, and continued in a gallop upward. Having passed the Haradrim army, nothing now stood in their path to the seventh gate. Aragorn's heart thumped painfully in his throbbing chest. He could not breathe, and no thoughts came to him save the frantic hope that he was not already too late. That his wife and friends were unharmed. That he could yet save them.

They flew through the sixth gate. Past emptied homes. Along dirty streets. By the stables and the Houses of Healing. The last road wound upward, higher and higher, and with each strike of Arod's hooves to the street, with each boom of his heart, with each shallow breath, the king yearned for a final stroke of salvation. He would do anything for it. He would give anything to see Arwen smile and laugh again, to watch Faramir's eyes light with the coming of a grand notion, to see Legolas shine beneath the stars. His life was of no consequence to him now. He was no longer a king or a leader. He was simply a man, a husband and a friend and a brother, who so desperately wished to see his loved ones again. Holis had struck at him in a heinous, cruel gesture. Bereft of his victory, the emperor would take, would maim and hurt. Vengeance, it was, or perhaps not even something so grand. He could not say for certain. After all, with the birth of one dream, another died. Given the choice, would he sacrifice that which he desired most for the sake of his kingdom?

"The gate! The gate is open!" The king did not know who proclaimed those words, but they served to slam his mind back into the horrible reality. He looked forward and saw that indeed, by some grace of destiny, the seventh gate was still open. He shuddered in relief. They had not been too late! There was still a chance!

One of the Southrons stationed on the ramparts saw their approach. His eyes widened and he craned his neck to look down behind him. He began to shout loudly, his voice cracking with fright, his hand pointing wildly at the advancing horses. Aragorn felt pain, as though the life was draining from his very blood. Then he heard the familiar rumble of the heavy doors swinging shut. They were closing it!

"No!" he cried. He dug his heels into Arod's soft belly, and the horse lurched forward with a shrill whinny. Away they flew, galloping from the column of riders, tearing across the street at a frantic pace. He urged more speed from the horse, though he doubted Arod could actually run faster. He did not look behind him to see if any of his companions followed. There was nothing besides a single thought: he had to get inside.

The gate was nearly closed, but the Haradrim had not anticipated his rush. Like a streak of white and black, they tore through the doors. The passage was narrow, but not enough to hinder their advance. Flying through the gate was an amazing sensation, and all time seemed to slow as Aragorn finally reached his home. Euphoria pulsed over his beaten body, though this small victory was by no means worthy of such a sensation. Yet he embraced it. Each moment of triumph was enough to face the next of the ever-looming shadows.

The Haradrim backed away from the gate. Not only Aragorn had charged inside. As the king slowed Arod and turned him about, he saw quite a few of the riders had followed his lead. The enemy soldiers were completely taken by surprise by this sudden and brash act. The doors shut then with a heavy bang that echoed across the entrance, blocking more of the charge. Still, the damage had been done.

"Get that gate open!" Aragorn hollered as he slipped from Arod. Gimli refused to wait for assistance, quite ready to be done with riding, and the Dwarf came crashing down to the stone ground with a heavy clang. With an annoyed grunt, he was on his feet again. Aragorn glanced to him once to be certain he was not hurt before turning to those that had come inside.

The Haradrim, nearly a hundred strong, were recovering from their shock. However, instead of combating the warriors, most simply turned and fled into the grand arches that marked the entrance to the Citadel. Shouts filled the area, many clenched in fear, and those that refused to retreat charged against the riders.

Aragorn released a loud battle cry as he rounded upon an attacker, kicking at him furiously and sending him down to the ground. The man had no time to cry as he met his death at the point of the king's blade. Gimli's axe sliced into the leg of another soldier, and the man howled his misery as blood stained the snowy ground. Aragorn dispensed with another attacker, looking about frantically. Even with the retreat of many of their opponents, they were still greatly outnumbered. It appeared that only Éomer and Imrahil (both bearing Hobbits) and the twin sons of Elrond had made it inside the seventh gate. They could not face all of these men. Even with horses, the odds of their success were dreadful.

Firefoot reared and then kicked back. His hooves smacked powerfully into the chest of one advancing Southron, sending the soldier flying weightlessly backwards and colliding with the wall. He crumpled to the ground. Éomer yanked on the leather reins, pulling his mount around towards Imrahil. The young king grabbed Pippin by the arm and pulled him away from the prince, depositing the little creature before him on Firefoot. Imrahil turned his own horse away, his sword glinting red as he cut through the men crowded about them. Éomer pushed his way to the side entrances to the ramparts, jabbing at assailants with his spear to clear his path. Once there, he quickly dismounted and helped each Hobbit quickly down. Pressed against the wall, they had nowhere to go but inside. For a moment, Aragorn wondered if the young man had lost his wits. However, he understood what Éomer meant to do as he saw the Southrons atop the parapet scramble to join the battle below. Merry and Pippin rushed inside the stone corridor, their swords glimmering once before being swallowed by the darkness.

A moment spent watching this proved rather costly. Aragorn gave a cry as he was knocked from his feet by a soldier, and he hit the ground hard under the weight of the tackle. The breath rushed from his body, leaving him dazed. The Southron might have then killed him, but the invader found himself with a dagger embedded deeply in his back before he could sink his own weapon into the king's vulnerable chest. The man gasped and arched his body in agony, his dark eyes rolling back in their sockets, before he fell to the side lifelessly. Aragorn gasped, shock and terror leaving him quivering, as he pushed the dead body off of his own. Elladan offered him a hand and quickly pulled him upright. Together the two of them fell back, pressing themselves against the wall.

"This does not go well," the Elf remarked, his eyes narrowed, his face impassive. Elrohir was beside them, fitting the last of his arrows to his bow. They flew forth like bolts of lightning and sunk into the chest of one of the approaching Haradrim. It did not matter much, though. The two Elves, three men, and one Dwarf were effectively trapped against the wall. In Aragorn's stupor, they had been pushed down away from the entrance to the ramparts, leaving them with no hope of escape. Blood stained weapons were held before them, and eyes darted about wildly as the Haradrim closed about them. Aragorn breathed heavily, narrowing his gaze as he beheld what would likely be their doom. Where the sounds of fighting had once reverberated there was now only silence.

Gimli grunted. "Now would be a good time for a plan," he declared, his voice twisted with the sort of mirth borne from absolute anger and terror. Nobody answered him.

The sound of chains twisting and straining caused Aragorn to look wildly towards the gate. The left door began to lift from the lock that fastened it to its partner. The Hobbits! The two small creatures alone would never boast enough strength to move the massive slabs, but they had disengaged the locking mechanism. Luckily, that was all they needed to do. With the left door free, the forces outside slammed it. The ground vibrated with the force of the impact, and the door shuddered, opening a bit more. Another strike to it was sufficient, and the entrance was opened once more.

The rest of the riders flooded inside the seventh gate. The Haradrim about them ripped around, their wrathful expressions shattered in shock, and Aragorn launched himself forward. He sliced at them, spinning and stabbing his sword into one man before wheeling about to block the blow of another. His friends followed, charging into the fray. The Elves were the first to enter the gate behind the riders, and soon the area was teeming with battle. A few men struggled to get the other door open, pulling on it with grunts and groans of exertion. It as well came free and opened the way for the rest of the forces outside to enter.

The fight raged violently, but it ended quickly. Aragorn had slipped into the comforting haze of instinct and talent, experience guiding his hands, legs, and eyes as he flawlessly fought against those that had sought to conquer his home. When he parted with this lulling calm, it was over. The Haradrim had surrendered, and many lay dead at their feet. Aragorn lowered his blade, glancing around as the remaining enemies dropped their weapons. The riders circled them, pushing them into the center of the courtyard, prodding those that resisted with sharp spears and swords. The captured Southrons fell to their knees, hands raised to indicate their submission. It began to snow again, but the peace of it seemed awfully misplaced, a false lull in an unending battle.

Merry and Pippin appeared then, running from the door, their flashes flush with excitement. Pippin sported something of a cut on his brow, and both their swords were red and glistening, but neither appeared greatly harmed. The young Took smiled as he approached his friends. "We've done it now, Aragorn," he commented, his face alight with what they had accomplished.

Aragorn smiled weakly, feeling nothing of their joy. He was again reminded of how little all of them knew about what was occurring within their home, about what still lay ahead of them. He rested his hand on the Hobbit's shoulder momentarily, thanking him with a fond nod.

Their moment of relief was horribly ended when a peculiar scent pricked their noses. Aragorn stood still, his hand falling from Pippin. He grimaced, the aroma twisting his stomach with nauseous. He recognized it immediately. Burning flesh. The wind blew, bringing a pale, gray cloud upon them. It washed over them, coating them with the foul smell, and the king nearly gagged.

He looked up through the light snow. "Sweet Elbereth," Elladan murmured from beside him, the Elf's eyes glazed with grief and disbelief. There were great billows of smoke spilling into the dark, gray sky, the plumes light in comparison to the clouds they were eagerly joining. It was emanating from above, where the great courtyard of the Citadel stretched over the city.

Aragorn could hardly breathe the atrocious odor was so awful, and his body had clenched in rage. He thought of Amrothos, noticing now that the young man was nowhere to be found. Obviously he had been taken from entrance. Terror spiked inside of Aragorn, that horrible smoke stealing his senses from him. He pushed through the group of Rohirrim and Elves holding the prisoners at bay. His blade shown wickedly, and his face was dark. "Where is the boy?" he demanded, towering over them. His eyes were fiery, fury coursing through him with every rushed beat of his heart. His chest heaved in ire. "Where is he?"

Nobody responded. The silence was deafening. The king grabbed the tunic of one of the Southrons and hauled the man to his feet. "I will kill each and every one of you unless an answer is spoken!" he snarled, staring into the frightened man's eyes. Perhaps they simply did not understand to whom he was referring. "The king," he clarified, lowering his tone, never blinking and never looking away. "The one who bore the Flame of the West. Where is he?"

The man swallowed. "Lord Ulpheth brought him before His Excellency–"

That was all Aragorn needed to hear. He shoved the man away and was off in a frantic run. He heard the others behind him, shouting to him, demanding that he wait, but he did not care. His legs pumped madly as he charged through the entrance of the Citadel. The grand foyer was cluttered with debris, but the Southrons had apparently fallen further back for it was starkly empty. The sound of his feet striking the polished floor resounded, beating in time with his frantic heart. He following the path upward, his eyes tearing, thought and breath lost from him. He could only feel, and he felt terror, panic, and rage. Hope was fleeting, suffocated by that foul wind, and as he charged upward and burst into the open air of the massive courtyard, he was lost in it.

And that small flame of faith was suddenly blown out.

Aragorn stopped. His body suddenly failed him. He could not breathe, his lungs clenched, his heart still, his mind frozen. All he could was stare, and he did so with tears leaking from the corners of his wide, frightened eyes. Before him, covering the once illustrious, beautiful land, were hundreds and hundreds of bodies. They were piled high, lining the snow-covered path in grotesque decoration. And they were burning. Flames, quenched by the snow, tiredly ate at the flesh of the corpses, spilling filth into the air. Charred faces stared at him, most forever locked in an expression of pain, misery, and fear. Maids. Soldiers. Stable hands. Cooks. The Citadel Guard. Book-keepers and servants and citizens. Innocents slaughtered. Sightless eyes watched him, begging him for freedom, for life, accusing him, hating him.

For what seemed to be a horrible eternity he simply stood there, paralyzed by what was before him. The others came to join him, but he hardly noticed their approach. Gasps resounded. Then sobbing. He was gone from this all, torn apart by a tempest of grief and horror. How could this have happened? How could he have let this happen?

The curtains of smoke wafted and shifted in the wind, and they suddenly parted. His unblinking eyes suddenly found themselves looking down the path towards the Citadel. He saw white and gray, branches and trunk. Then he choked on a sob. No. There was nothing left inside him, the sight burning into his eyes and mind and heart, consuming him in an avalanche of chilling misery. No!

He was running, sprinting down the path. The world was a blur of black and red and white. Sound seemed terribly distant, the shouts of his friends reaching him only after passing through what felt to be a long, dark tunnel. He could not look away, his eyes trained upon the horrific scene, and only when he reached the end of the road did all the emotion burst through him.

"Faramir!" he cried, dropping his sword into the snow as he skidded to a frantic stop. The steward did not respond. He hung limply, naked, from one of the branches of the White Tree, suspended by his wrists by thick, coarse ropes. He had obviously struggled for some time, as his wrists were coated in dried blood that had caked the bindings to his skin. His body was covered in welts and bruises, the bandages that had before covered his wound now gone. Blood coated him, dripping from his toes to the snow a few inches below. Snow filled his matted hair, sticking to the red gore painting his body. His head hung against his chest, his sandy locks hiding his face. He was unmoving. Perhaps not even breathing. Dead.

The White Tree, once pure and beautiful, was stained red. Just as Holis had ordered.

Panic drove Aragorn, his traumatized mind fleeing the misery of the situation. "Faramir!" he shouted hoarsely, stepping to the bound form. He wrapped his arms around his friend, lifting him to lessen the strain upon his wrists. Faramir's skin was like ice. "Oh, please, no… Faramir, please!" He looked behind him, his voice cracking under the weight of his despair. "Help me! Cut him down!  _Cut him down!_ "

Éomer was the first to reach him. The young man's face was white beneath the grime and blood. Tears filled his panicked eyes as he helped Aragorn support Faramir's weight, a sob escaping him with his panting breath. Imrahil drew a dagger and frantically stood on the roots of the tree, straining his body to reach the ropes. He grabbed them and set to furiously sawing, the dagger shining as it worked to cut the thick material. Aragorn pressed his face to Faramir's bare chest, but he could not hear a heart beat above his own frantic pulse. "It is nearly severed!" Imrahil shouted. The last seconds he spent working were infinite, terrible, and torturous. But then the ropes gave with a snap, and Faramir fell.

Aragorn staggered with the weight, nearly toppling as he fought to support his leaden friend. His knees bent, and he went down into the bloody snow, holding Faramir tightly in his arms. He lowered his head, hot tears filling his eyes and blurring his vision. The steward's hair fell back, revealing his face, and the pain grew unbearable. His eyes were sealed shut, one blackened from a blow. Blood had dried beneath his nose, his lips chapped and split. The bruises were stark against his pallor. There was no color in his countenance just as there was no life in his body. The king cradled his friend and began to cry.

Gimli screamed. Never before had the king heard such fury in the other's voice. "Not again!" he cried, tears upon his ruddy cheeks. "Look away, young Hobbits! Ai, turn your eyes away!" He stood in front of them as though by blocking their view he might erase this torment.

Elladan was beside Faramir. The Elf was pale, and though his face was calm, his eyes were filled with fear and worry. He pressed long fingers to the steward's neck, and Aragorn found he could do nothing but watch the son of Elrond's face as he sought a heartbeat. Another long moment crept by in which hearts strained and souls quivered. Then Elladan released a small, grateful sigh, closing his eyes briefly. "He lives yet."

Those three words were enough to revive Aragorn's spirit. "Take him," he ordered to Éomer, handing their charge to the young king. His hands flew to the black cloak and wrappings about him, freeing them from his torso, and then he laid them on the snowy ground. Together, he and Éomer laid Faramir atop them, pulling the cloth about the limp form and covering the steward's nudity. The horrible wounds, evidence of the torture the son of Denethor must have endured, were momentarily hidden, and somehow that freed Aragorn's mind from the clutches of despair. The king laid a hand on the steward's forehead, repulsed by the chill burning his fingertips.

He looked up, hearing sobbing, and he saw Merry hugging Pippin as the younger Hobbit wailed his misery. Pippin and Faramir had grown close during the War of the Ring, bound by their ordeal with Denethor's madness. To see him like this now… Aragorn witnessed Pippin's heart breaking. "Is he going to be alright?" the small creature asked, his voice twisted with emotion. "Is he, Aragorn?"

The king could not bring himself to answer. Elrohir was working quickly to untie the ropes still binding Faramir's hands together. The knots were quite tight, but finally they gave, and the Elf tossed them aside. Elladan drew one of Faramir's freed hands into his own, rubbing it to return warmth and circulation to the frozen fingers. "Faramir, hear my voice," he said softly in Elvish, leaning over the steward's blank face. "Come back to us. Open your eyes. Hear my voice and return to the light."

Nothing. Aragorn swallowed a painful limp in his throat. The twins were skilled healers, blessed with the ability to spread their vitality to others and call back tormented souls edging close to death. It was a gift they had inherited from their father, and many times had the man observed them save even the most seriously of wounded.

But Faramir had been stripped and beaten and left to die. He had been hanging in the frigid cold likely for hours. He was barely clinging to life now. The prospect of his survival seemed bleak. Elladan looked to his twin, and though his expression was placid, Aragorn knew him well enough to detect the fear in his eyes. "We must get him warm," the twin declared, "or the exposure will kill him."

The king finally found his voice. "Take him to the Houses of Healing," he said.

"That is Amrothos' surcoat." Imrahil's soft declaration was terribly sudden and unrelated. Stunned, Aragorn looked down, realizing when he had removed the black cape and clothing that he had revealed the blue coat beneath it. The swan was covered in dirt and soot. Imrahil had obviously just noticed this fact as well, and the man's face grew paler still as Aragorn met his gaze. His lips barely moved. "Where is my son?" he asked.

Time pressed upon him again. Aragorn stood, his limbs weak and joints aching. He forced his body to move, as fettered as he was to the horror laid before him. "He is inside," he declared, stooping briefly to collect his blade. "We must get to them." The only thing left to him was the cold apathy of a leader, and he donned the mask, eager for its detachment. Everything simply hurt too much. To Merry and Pippin, he said, "Go with Elladan and Elrohir. They may need your help." The two nodded, Pippin grabbing Faramir's limp hand as Elladan lifted him. The slender Elf, deceptively strong, did not even struggle with the weight. "Lead the men inside," Aragorn snapped to Imrahil.

The prince was tight-lipped, angry at Aragorn's ambiguous answer concerning Amrothos but saying nothing. He nodded and charged back down the path between the smoking corpses to reach the army.

Aragorn stepped to Faramir, struggling to compose himself as his strength slipped. He laid his hand on the steward's brow once more.  _I will make him pay,_  he thought.  _He will die before this sun again sets._  Then he turned. "Let us go," he declared to Éomer and Gimli. "It is time we show Holis the penance for bathing our friends in blood."

* * *

The Citadel was in utter ruin. The once palatial, beautiful home of the royal family, the very seat of peace in the Fourth Age, had been destroyed. The dead lay everywhere, though Aragorn could not possibly fathom how there could yet be more bodies given the sheer number piled outside and burning. Quite a few of the corpses belonged to the Haradrim, and the king was glad for it. Obviously the citizens and soldiers trapped in the Citadel had made quite a stand before succumbing to the enemy. Strewn about with the dead were fallen swords and arrows, broken furniture, ripped cloth and tapestries, clothes and linens, broken glass and destroyed dishes… The contents of his home were spilled like entrails from a ripped belly, and simply pushing through the mess was both disturbing and difficult.

The sounds of battle filled the air both within and outside the Citadel. In the city, the Dúnedain continued to pummel the Haradrim. The invaders were trapped in the sixth circle, held in a devastating stasis by the city's curling, narrow passages and gates. They could not escape. The fight within the keep was loud and violent as the king and his followers pushed deeper inside. About every corner, in every room, the Haradrim had spread. Some surrendered, jabbering in the foreign tongue as they laid down their weapons. Many launched themselves at the returning lords with all the fervor of desperate warriors. Screams and shouts echoed off of the walls that had for so long lived in a peaceful silence. Like a pure wind, the men pushed through their home, cleansing away the evil that had come to mar it.

Aragorn staggered, leaning against a wall and breathing heavily. Éomer was beside him, panting vigorously, lowering his sword. His hazel eyes darted about as they paused in this hallway, struggling to regain their composure. The soldiers had been ordered to search for survivors and control the Haradrim, killing any who resisted. They had spread out, battling those they encountered and freeing maids and servants held captive. Aragorn, Gimli, and Éomer had gone to the second level where they had met some confrontation. A small band of Southrons now lay dead behind them.

Éomer brushed the sweat from his face. "There are too many rooms," he commented softly, speaking what each knew in his heart. "We cannot search them all."

A rough curse issued from the Dwarf beside them. "We will if we must!" Gimli growled, his eyes glancing about the darkened corridor angrily. "That demon will kill Legolas should he be found!"

Aragorn swallowed, fear causing him to shiver. "Death will not swiftly come to our friend if Holis takes him again," he commented mindlessly, his voice dead and his heart torn. "And he will. His lust affords him no other course. He is mad with it." Gimli grunted in a mixture of disgust and rage, and he turned his glaring eyes to the mess upon the floor.

Having regained his wind slightly, Aragorn pushed his aching form up wearily. His head throbbed mercilessly, the wound he had received what seemed like ages ago bothering him anew. His battered body was screaming for rest, but he could not oblige it. They had not as yet found Holis or any of their friends and loved ones. The Citadel was a large place and, like the city in which it resided, it had been built with many long, winding corridors. This stone labyrinth made an invasion difficult. The Haradrim had made use of the design as well, hiding behind twists in the hallways and in the numerous rooms only to spring out and ambush their forces. In the chaos, searching became difficult. Aragorn was quite certain Holis was hidden deep within the Citadel, which would be a location difficult to reach. The time it was taking to move to the interior of the manner was frustrating and frightening him.

Much to the three weary warriors' relief, Imrahil and a band of soldiers, each bearing the mark of Dol Amroth, appeared behind them. "Nothing, my Lord," the prince declared. He wiped the blood from his face, though the cut on his cheek was quick to supply more. "There is no sign of the Queen."

Aragorn's worry mounted. Inescapably he knew it as he pushed himself off of the wall. Holis had taken Arwen, and likely others as well. The thought of that vile monster touching his beloved wife made him shake with rage. Energy burst through his hurting body, driving him onward in this gory quest. He had to stop this! He raised his blade and bounded down the hallway. Over the remains of a broken defense he ran, nearly tripping many times on objects the shadows obscured. He never fell, though; he would not allow himself that weakness. The others followed, pushing through the mess of chairs and tables.

The healer's quarters were ahead. The king's keen hearing registered a vicious conversation and the cries of a girl. He drew to a sudden stop, forcing his tense, angry muscles to be loose and fluid. He pressed himself to the wall and gestured to those behind him to do the same. They were silent, recognizing immediately that their king wished to remain hidden. The door to the healer's quarters was open. The sound of a slap echoed down the hallway, and Aragorn stiffened. Gripping his sword with both hands, he silently stepped to the other side of the hallway, trying to peer inside.

He was completely caught by surprise when the door beside him burst open. The careening wood, swinging rapidly in its arc, strung him in the face, and he fell back with a cry. The floor was hard and warm beneath him, jolting his bruised body painfully as he struck, and he scrambled back. Blood filled his mouth, coppery and bitter, as the impact had caused him to jab his teeth into his tongue. Fear raced through him as a flood of Haradrim exited the now open room. One raised a wicked sword to strike the fallen king.

But Gimli was faster. "Aragorn!" he cried, bringing the neck of his axe upward to catch the descending blade. The two weapons smacked together, the Dwarven warrior standing over his friend. Gimli grunted and shoved the Southron back. He swung wide with his mighty axe and killed another of the men edging closer to them. The king pushed himself back, cutting his hands on a bit of glass from a broken vase upon the floor, scrambling to rise to his feet. Éomer was behind him, pulling on his shoulders, helping him stand. Gimli was quickly overrun by the Haradrim, the Dwarf giving an angry howl as he was shoved against the wall. A dagger found its way into the brave warrior's thigh, and he fell, one hand clutching the hilt of the embedded weapon.

"Get down!"

Éomer pressed him to the floor, covering Aragorn's body with his own. The familiar hum of bowstrings sounded above the scraping and fighting, and Aragorn struggled to peer from beneath Éomer's arms as the arrows found their targets. The hall was narrow, giving the company of Haradrim little space to maneuver, and thus the shots proved deadly. Five or six of the soldiers fell, the arrows protruding from chests and necks and bellies.

A second later Éomer was hauling him to his feet, for another wave of attackers was nearly upon them. Aragorn, shaken and hurt, brought his sword to bear against the assault, blocking a stab directed at his chest, feigning, and then countering with a strike of his own. His blade met flesh and another man died. The king ducked, avoiding the swipe of a club, and then he was shoved back against the wall. Two hands had locked about his throat in an instant and squeezed. He choked and struggled, and for his efforts his head was knocked back into the wall. Pain flowered about his skull, arcing through him in white, hot lines, and blackness filled his eyes.

Imrahil grabbed the man upon his king and with an angry snarl yanked him back, spinning the assailant. The prince whirled, gripping his blade with two hands, and rammed the sharp edge into the offender's back. The man arched violently and crumpled to the ground.

Aragorn slumped, gasping for air, his eyes watering uncontrollably. His entire body ached as his lungs struggled to draw in sufficient breath. He could hear nothing aside from his pulse wracking his brain for a long moment. And then he heard screaming. His body had failed him, his limbs seemingly disjointed and unable to heed the panicked demands of his mind. He fell to the side and scrambled forward, crawling across the filthy floor to the door of the healer's quarters.

Inside Lothíriel shrieked again. Her dress was torn, her dark hair tangled and pulled free from a braid, her pretty face streaked with tears. Her hands were obviously bound behind her back, and two men, their cold expressions masking their anticipation, held her arms. Aragorn followed her frightened gaze to the floor. Amrothos lay there, manacled as well, curled tightly in on himself. He had brought his knees up to his chest to protect his vulnerable midsection, though his wounded leg could hardly manage it. Towering above him was Ulpheth, and the cruel man slammed his foot again into the helpless form at his feet. Amrothos howled, blood dripping from torn lips, as the man kicked him in the back. Subconsciously the boy spread his body and rolled, crushing his hands, desperate to dull the pain. Ulpheth gave a small, grim smile. His empty eyes were terrifying. "I shall ask you one last time, child," the man hissed. "Where is your king?"

Aragorn's eyes widened. He opened his mouth to cry out them, but his voice would not come through his brutalized throat. Amrothos only coughed, struggling to turn over again. Ulpheth's face tightened into a glower, and he drew his sword from the sheath at his side. Lothíriel screamed, and the men slapped her. Aragorn's heart stopped as the man prepared to murder the young man, looming over him with the blade held aloft.  _No!_

A dagger suddenly struck the man in the back. For a long moment, nothing moved. Even the battle all around them seemed to pause. Slowly Ulpheth turned around, his eye wide in surprise, his face bathed in sweat and twisted in agony. His gaze lethargically turned to the hallway outside, and Aragorn whipped around to look behind him, rising to his knees. Éomer lowered the arm that had thrown the knife. His glare was vicious and hateful, but he said nothing, glaring at the Ulpheth. Holis' guard gave a short breath. Blood dripped down between his legs, splashing to the floor. His sword fell from his fingers, and he finally collapsed. A whispered word escaped him, and he was still.

The two men holding Lothíriel were obviously shocked by the abrupt turn of events, for they did nothing but stare as Éomer and the men charged into the room. The King of Rohan pointed his sword at them, and they backed away, eyes wide and faces pale beneath the swatches of black cloth. The young woman sobbed as Éomer drew her into his embrace, pulling her to the side. His sword never wavered, and he never spoke.

By now Imrahil and his men had finished contending with the Haradrim that had burst from the room and nearly killed Aragorn. The Prince of Dol Amroth pushed his way inside. "Amrothos!" he called, his face pale at the sight of his son beaten and bound on the floor. He stepped over Ulpheth's dead body and came to his knees beside Amrothos. "Lie still," he whispered, taking his dagger to the ropes that bound his son's hands. Once Amrothos was free, Imrahil hugged him tightly. Lothíriel parted with Éomer to collapse to her knees at her father's side, sobbing into his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around both his children, tears of joy upon his face as he held them.

Aragorn managed to climb to his feet, his body bathed in clammy sweat and his heart quivering in his chest. "Sir, are you well?" He nodded to the question, not having the energy to even turn to address whoever had asked. He staggered closer to the door, and he spotted Gimli down the hall.

Terror raced through him once more as he saw the Dwarf's unmoving form, crushed beneath the leaden forms of the dead Haradrim who had fallen atop him. "Gimli!" Aragorn hoarsely cried, pushing men who were watching the reunion inside the healer's quarters aside as he fought to reach his friend. The panicked ranger shoved away the dead men, fighting to reach his friend.  _Oh, please! Not him as well! Please, no!_  "Gimli!"

The Dwarf turned his head. Aragorn thought he might cry from his relief as he knelt beside his dear friend. Gimli licked his lips, wearily opening his eyes, and groaned. "I am now beginning to understand why you and the Elf get along so well together… You both have an inexplicable and infuriating pension for getting yourselves into the worst of scrapes, leaving only the Dwarf to save you. And with what am I rewarded for my troubles? A splitting headache is all, and the promise of yet another such misery in the future."

Aragorn smiled at the familiar griping. He looked at the dagger still horridly stuck in the Dwarf's thigh. He gripped it, not bothering demean the moment with a shallow promise of quickness or an unnecessary warning of pain, and pulled it free. It easily left the flesh, and Gimli made not a sound of discomfort, his expression screwed tightly with a brave effort. "Cloth, hurry!" the king cried, pressing his bare hands over the gushing hole. Gimli grunted then, leaning back into the wall and breathing heavily. The king's orders were quickly followed, and one of Imrahil's troops offered to him the requested item. This Aragorn placed the swatch over the injury, providing heavy pressure to control the bleeding.

"My Lord." Aragorn looked over his shoulder. Lothíriel stood at the door, her face pale and smudged, her reddened eyes glistening. She leaned upon Éomer uncertainly, limping as she moved closer. She swallowed, struggling for breath and composure, and began to quickly speak. "You must go, Your Highness. The Queen and Lady Éowyn fled deeper into the Citadel at Lord Faramir's demand, to the royal quarters. The Emperor knows of this. He will find them!"

Éomer's eyes flashed. Aragorn clenched his fist, helpless rage burning brightly within him. "And Legolas?" Gimli demanded, struggling to sit up further. "What of him?"

Lothíriel looked like a doll, fragile and delicate, but she did not shatter, given all the misery she had witnessed. "I do not know, sir. Forgive me my ignorance." She averted her eyes in shame.

Éomer shook his head and bore more of her weight, allowing her to lean heavily upon him. "Take rest," he bid softly, "and do not worry. Your father will care for you." She nodded, releasing the young king with a worried, longing expression upon her face. Éomer held her hand briefly before quickly stepping over the mess to kneel beside Aragorn. "We must hurry! That filth shall not touch my sister…" He did not finish the thought, but what remained unsaid was clear. Holis had proven himself capable of anything. He could not be allowed to brutalize those they cherished.

Aragorn looked down at the injury, the cloth growing stained in red. The bleeding had slowed, but the wound required greater care. Gimli would not be able to stand, much less run or fight. The king was torn for a moment, not caring to leave his friend behind wounded. Then Gimli laid a gloved hand over Aragorn's and pulled it from the wound. "Go," the Dwarf declared. "Do not concern yourself over me. We Dwarves are made of thicker stuff than a mere dagger can pierce." There was certainly no doubting that assertion! All the mirth dropped from Gimli's voice as he held his friend's gaze. "Save Legolas. I cannot bear to lose him now. Not after all of this. Bring him back. He will come to you, Aragorn. I know he will. He loves you more than I can possibly fathom, stronger than any torment done to him, than any illusion or shadow put upon his spirit. You can find him.  _Please._ "

The king could only nod, his voice lost to him, and he rose. Éomer nodded once, and the two took off in the full sprint down the hallway. Neither man spoke, each consumed by fear and dark tidings, running with every ounce of their desperation and panic. Hurts were ignored. Weariness was disregarded. Through the long hallways they raced, their feet pounding upon stone and carpet and steps. Breaths were shallow. Hearts were barely beating. Everything, it seemed, would come down to one moment. At the end of the final corridor, their fate would greet them. And they would not stop until that fate was made right again.

Finally they reached the hallway that led to the royal chambers. Éomer gave him a glance, offering his support in return for encouragement for himself. Aragorn tightened his grip on Amrothos' sword, lifting it so that it was parallel to his narrowed eyes. The setting sun cast pale shadows into the long, silent hallway. The snow and smoke outside turned the light gray and dismal. He strained his ears, but he could not hear anything. The doors to the royal chamber were sealed. Silent. He did not like this.

Then he began to run on light feet, forcing his heavy body to accommodate his ambitions for a stealthy approach. Éomer followed, holding his own weapon down. They reached the door, each on either side. Sweat bathed their faces, and both kings held their breaths for fear of alerting whoever lay beyond with their panting. They paused a moment, listening again, but only the horrific quiet answered them. Aragorn nodded to Éomer, watching the young man calm himself. The king quieted his heart, drawing in a deep breath to quell his terror. Then he reached to the side and grabbed the knob, turning it slightly. It was thankfully not locked.  _An invitation. This is certainly a trap!_ The brass nearly slipped from his bloody, sweaty fingers, but he closed his hand around it.  _It is time to end this,_  his mind reminded his fearful heart.  _Face him now. End this!_

He twisted the knob sharply, releasing the door from its locks, and pulled sharply. The metal slab swung open towards him, and Éomer thundered into the room, sword raised, while Aragorn maneuvered around the door. It was the son of Éomund's foul luck that he entered first, for a man beside the door struck him firmly over the head with his sheathed sword. The young man gave a cry and fell forward, his blade skittering from his hand across the floor. There was a scream. Éowyn's voice, muffled and hoarse. Aragorn charged inside, stepping over his fallen companion and slashing to the left. Obviously Holis had intended for Aragorn to come inside immediately and had hoped to render him unconscious with this act. As it was, the king killed the man beside the door before he could ever draw his blade. The assailant fell to the ground with a heavy thud.

Aragorn stepped inside, seeing no other immediate threat, and knelt beside his fallen friend. Éomer was only asleep, a great, red welt forming upon his high brow at his hairline. A muffled cry alerted him, and he stood quickly, stepping aside and lifting his sword. His eyes darted about his room, searching for the source of the sound. Upon the floor near the open balcony lay Beregond. His head was wounded, and his face was bruised. Aragorn watched him a moment and saw the man's chest move with breath. Wind blew inside, carrying a bitter bite and a wave of snow. The king would have to return for Beregond; it was too dangerous to stop now and aid the man. He approached the bedroom, holding his breath, keeping the sounds of his approach to the absolute minimum. Forward he crept, straining his senses. There was weeping and heavy breathing. He stepped to the other side of the short passage and paused at the open door.

Glancing inside, he saw only Éowyn. The White Lady was bound to a chair in the corner, gagged and blindfolded. She was breathing heavily, and what little Aragorn could see of her face was flushed with fear and cold and wet with tears. All manner of hesitation disappeared, and he rushed forward, lowering his blade. She squealed, immediately alerted that someone had entered the room by his now loud steps. He knelt beside her, shushing her desperately, fearing her cries would alert whoever remained inside. "Éowyn," he whispered, taking her face between his hands. The woman moaned, trembling in terror, fighting anew against her bonds. "Be still. It is Aragorn." He feared she would simply not believe him until she could see him, so he set to removing the cloth from her face. Once he pulled it free, two wet, blue eyes stared at him. They widened in absolute terror, and she shook her head as though to fight against him. Moaning at her helplessness, she began to sob anew. It was as if she was fighting to warn him of something. "Éowyn…"

"Welcome, my friend."

Aragorn rose sharply, his breath catching in his throat. He spun, his heart pounding, and lifted his sword. Holis slipped from one of the back chambers, his face calm, his gaze dark with controlled emotion. The king gasped, his breath suddenly gone from him, and his weary body nearly froze in terror.  _Oh, no. Not this! No!_

The emperor pushed Arwen before him. Like Éowyn, his wife's hands were bound behind her back, and she was gagged and blindfolded. Holis stretched an arm around the Queen's waist, nudging her into walking. Across her pale neck he held a long, wicked dagger. Those black eyes narrowed. "Now, you will drop your weapon and lead me to the Elf," he said slowly, pressing the knife closer to tender skin, "or I will slit your wife's throat."


	40. To His Teeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Well, here we are. Thanks to everyone reading. You've stuck with me for a long haul, and I really appreciate it.

"So now we come to it," Holis declared, stepping to the side and keeping Arwen between Aragorn's sword and himself. The Elf lifted her chin, her form taut as the knife pricked the vulnerable flesh of her throat. Aragorn could scarcely breathe, his eyes darting between his wife's gagged and blindfolded face and Holis' cool countenance. Arwen was silent as the emperor maneuvered her, but Aragorn knew she was afraid. His heart throbbed in utter misery. How could it have come to this? Yet as much as his terrified mind wished to deny, somehow he had always known it would end as such. Holis, after all, wished for nothing more than to dominate him, to bend his will to the man's own desires. Down to the last moment, to the last man, he would follow that ambition. It was a lust that would permit no defeat. There was simply no other way for this nightmare to conclude, and both men knew it. Holis smiled. "I knew you would not flee your city and abandon your people. You are far too noble for such a base and craven act. Faramir is a terrible liar."

Éowyn moaned softly at the mention of her husband. Aragorn stiffened to hide a shudder, the sight of Faramir's mutilated, naked form suspended from the White Tree tormenting him anew. Still, he refused to look away, his hate and fear pushing him to take a step forward. "Let her go, Holis," he quietly ordered, his voice seething venom. "She is not involved."

Holis glanced to Arwen, seemingly pleased with the queen's absolute inability to protect herself. She was weak before him, bound and sightless, and he fed off of the aura of fear like a wolf savored the scent of blood. "Ah, but she  _is_  involved. I have said this so many times, my Lord, that your complete refusal to acknowledge my wisdom grates upon my nerves. You are king. Thus, all those you command, all those who serve you, are merely an extension of your will. You shape the world as you wish, and you use all, even those you claim to love, to create a perfect vision. A utopia. Your dream."

"No!"

Holis grinned again, displaying pearly white, flawless teeth. The cruel gesture made Aragorn's chest throb. "Perhaps you should explain to Legolas why your will is not supreme then. Perhaps you could alleviate his misery by filling his head and heart with lies. He stays for you. Surely you know this. The sea calls to him like a mother does her son to her warm bosom, and yet he lingers in a world turned cold and quiet to him, fettered by a misguided and uniquely naïve sense of duty  _to you_."

Hurt welled up inside Aragorn. These words, combined with the absolute terror of the situation, were quickly robbing him of his calm. "He stays because he chooses to," the king corrected, refusing to allow Holis to wound him with this barrage of falsehoods. "I would have him leave if I could!"

"Would you?" Holis had seen through his brazen statement, and the king paled despite himself. "You are blinded by your own righteousness, Aragorn. I delved into Legolas' mind, touching parts of his spirit you can only hope to one day fathom. I saw the truth behind every smile he offers you, the reality beneath every instance he has stood at your side. He suffers for your friendship, for this pathetic love of brotherhood you hold so dear. Do you not think the sea beckons him, that it blurs his world with the washing of blue waters, that it tears at his heart like the wind rips spray from the surf? You, who call yourself his brother. Tell me you are not so blind, Aragorn. Tell me you are not so selfish as to ignore the suffering of one you love for the sake of a future you wish to craft."

Aragorn could see what Holis was trying to accomplish, and he would not be baited. "I am not like you," he hissed, tightening his grip upon his blade.

"No," Holis agreed, pushing around the room, glancing once towards the door. Arwen drew a short breath as the emperor strengthened his grip about her. "I think not. I have the courage to admit my flaws, my appetites. You hide behind love and wallow in despair when your shortcomings are laid bare before you. You are a pathetic king, Elessar, and a failure of a friend. You offered your dearest brother to me with both hands, your eyes squeezed shut and your mouth silent. Every thing I have done to him was with your permission. Legolas is mine because you gave him to me!"

Arwen finally whimpered at such words, and Aragorn felt his rage burn him. "No!" he cried. "Let her go! It is over! The war is lost! You cannot win this fight, and you cannot destroy my kingdom!"

Holis' eyes narrowed viciously. "Perhaps this war is lost," he commented, edging closer and closer to the door. "But I hunger for grander things. A final confrontation is promised. Now, drop your sword or I will spill this pretty Elf's blood all over your Citadel. Do not pressure me, Aragorn. By now you know my word is law."

Aragorn hesitated, panic churning inside him and making the room spin in vicious, angry circles. He could not think, apprehension cleaving his emotions from any sort of rational logic. Again he was being forced to choose. If he did not lay down his sword, Holis would kill Arwen. Of that he had no doubt. And yet to submit now would threaten Legolas. He pictured his friend alone, unconscious, hidden in the Tower of Ecthelion. The prince would be helpless to defend himself. He heard Holis' hurtful words again, and the prospect of him offering his friend to this monster's lusts turned his blood cold. The worst truths were often nestled among lies. He could not allow Holis to touch Legolas again! He simply could not!

Time fled him, each moment made infinite by the pressure of the decision forced upon him. His heart held still, and he could draw no breath into his body. Tears filled his eyes, helpless, angry tears that burned him. "I will not choose between them!" he declared, his voice quivering.

"Choose!" Holis snapped, pointing the tip of the knife under Arwen's chin, forcing the queen to crane her neck upward.

His mind was gone, beaten and brutalized, so his body simply acted. The weight was gone from his fingers. He heard a clang a moment later, one that resounded through the room and his head. He made no sense of what had just happened. It was as if he had been split from his body and his spirit was now watching things from afar, unable to act, detached and desolated. He treasured the moment of stupefaction, an eternity of pleasant apathy to his wretched soul. Then it all ended. Reality snapped forward, shoving him back into this aching body. He had dropped his sword.

Holis smiled thinly. "You are as weak as ever, Elessar," he commented haughtily, the light in his dark eyes revealing how truly pleased he was with Aragorn's submission. "And as pathetically predictable. Your devotion chains you to a fading dream."

The parallels were viciously striking, but he had only the mental faculty to idly hear the words and consider the implication. A fleeting picture paused before his sightless, defeated eyes, coalescing from wisps of emotion and tendrils of supposition. He saw himself twisted, turned from a loving king to a heinous monster. He saw his own eyes turned dark and hideous, veiled with the blackest of evils. He witnessed the perversion of reality, but in that moment as he absently pondered the path down which he was about to walk, it seemed so terribly likely. The same base and horrid ambitions lay within him, the same goals and desire for power. Was it merely a stroke of good fortune that his weakness manifested itself with peace and love rather than hate and violence? He had been pushed, degraded and demeaned, and he had splintered and succumbed to the whispers of malevolence. That simple fact had truly been the cause of all of this misery. Surely the hearts of men were made of sterner stuff! Yet he was no longer certain. The lines were clear between right and wrong, between good and evil, when the enemy had been the embodiment of shadow, when their foe had been a Dark Lord, intangible and alien. Holis was a man. Those who had aided him in this bloody crusade were men. Beneath all the pretenses, they were all the same.

Aragorn narrowed his eyes. "As your lust does you," he softly announced, feeling the shadows surround his heart but knowing beyond any doubt the truth. "That is the difference between you and me." He did not know if his nemesis heard him, but he found he no longer cared. Holis was right. It had finally come to this. He could not fight the designs of fate. "I will take you to Legolas."

The emperor's eyes shone like the glittering night sky as he backed from the bedroom. "A wise choice," he commented. It seemed to the forlorn, resigned king that the man was struggling to keep the relief and elation from his tone. For all his intimidation, cruelty, and intelligence, Holis truly was a simple creature, bound by carnal instincts. He was not so grand as to anticipate every outcome. But this meant little now. Arwen drew a short breath when Holis knocked her into the wall slightly as they retreated from the bedroom. "Now, if you would be so kind." The man paused and momentarily lowered the dagger from Arwen's neck to open his hand towards the antechamber of the room, obviously showing Aragorn his way towards the door, which still hung open with Éomer laying in the ajar portal.

Aragorn bristled at the emperor's patronizing tone and gesture; curse the man for his arrogance! Rage, brighter and hotter than the sun, scorched his body, boiling his blood and filling his lungs with fire. The king, unarmed and now completely helpless, stepped slowly about, keeping distance between himself and the demon that held his beloved wife hostage. He glanced once to Éowyn, tied still to the chair, and met the woman's frightened gaze. Blue eyes, wide with terror and wet with tears, followed his every movement. Aragorn did not know what had happened during the siege of the Citadel for the chain of events to arrive at this disastrous climax. Surely Faramir would have demanded his wife and Arwen remain hidden, dispatching them most likely to the White Tower to protect and care for Legolas. Aragorn knew his friend would not have permitted Éowyn and Arwen to participate in the final defense. Surely the steward realized it to be a futile fight. But, inexplicably those plans had gone awry. Truthfully Aragorn could not imagine either Éowyn or Arwen simply hiding away while others suffered. Both boasted strong spirits and stubborn hearts; they would not cower when their valuable skills as healers, warriors, and thinkers were better placed. He could not blame them, for surely he would have been just as unwilling to remain secluded during such a time of peril. It was not their fault that their courage and fortitude had made them vulnerable targets that Holis now used against them all.

The man's power thrived upon such things. Legolas and Faramir were testament to that.

He shook his head once to Éowyn, knowing the very limits of her suffering, sending to her the very depths of his own. He did not want to do this. He wished to fight! But he was helpless. There was nothing he could do now to save Arwen beyond abiding by Holis' wishes. There was nothing he could do to stop the uncertain future from devouring them all.

Then he looked away. "I will kill you, Holis," he seethed quietly, stepping through the short archway that connected the bedroom with the antechamber. His eyes fell to Arwen, watching his wife breathe roughly through the cloth between her teeth. The sight of her as such tortured him until rage was the only comfort afforded him. "I swear I will kill you."

"Do not flatter yourself, Elessar. You have proven yourself to be quite inept at protecting anything you hold dear. Hurry. You try my patience."

No other choice lay before him. Holis allowed Aragorn to step in front of him, prodding the apprehensively retreating form with a sharp shove. A muffled grunt of pain and surprise fled Arwen as the dagger sliced into her flesh with the sudden motion, but the emperor allowed her no escape, wrapping his arm once more about her waist, immobilizing her with strength like a steel cuff. The queen whimpered, blood drooling down the pale column of her long neck. "Hush, my dear," Holis said quietly, his tone abruptly low and sickeningly sweet. "Do not give your husband a reason to act brashly. You and I both know how poorly he handles himself when he is pushed, and you are far too beautiful a creature to sacrifice for such a dullard." Arwen groaned as the fiend tenderly kissed her bruised cheek.

Aragorn fumed, recovering from his stumble. "You unequivocal demon," the king hissed, disgusted at the perverse show of affection.

The knife, its edge coated in Arwen's blood, pointed violently towards him. "Move!" Holis hissed.

A moment later they were exiting the royal quarters. As Aragorn stepped over Éomer's unconscious form, his eyes desperately searched his friend's face for signs of awareness. The young king, however, was deeply unconscious, his eyes sealed shut, his face lax despite the fresh blood upon his brow.  _Please, my friend!_  his quivering mind wailed. He stared at Éomer with a vehement intensity, as though the mere power of his imploring eyes might succeed in pulling his companion from the embraces of unconsciousness.  _I need your help! Awake! Please, somebody help me!_  But Éomer remained still, and Holis chuckled darkly as he followed Aragorn outside, pushing Arwen with him.

Aragorn paused in the darkened hallway. He knew he was pushing his luck too far, but he could not help but create as much delay as possible. Perhaps somebody would follow them. Perhaps soldiers from below would venture upward. It was a chance he was willing to risk, his racing mind frantic to find a way to escape this dilemma. His eyes scanned the shadowy corridor madly, glancing again and again to the staircases. They were idle. He was alone. He heard Arwen cry out, and he ripped about, horror and anger rising to unbearable levels within him as he did. "Keep your eyes forward!" Holis snapped angrily. Aragorn flinched. His tone was maddened, hinting at a violent desire only barely restrained by patience and desperation. At any moment, it seemed, the cool façade would utterly fade away, leaving behind the true man beneath his many personalities and masks. That man, Aragorn knew, was a vicious beast. He had seen the hints of this demon upon the fields when Holis had raged about the merits of the crimes he had committed against Legolas, when he had beaten Faramir for his defiance. This was the substance of this nightmare. And, like a cornered animal, the evil would lash out and attack any who threatened what was his. Who was his.

Aragorn did not know what was before him, but he needed to walk. His feet began moving of their own accord, for his mind was lost to him. This hallway connected to another set of stairs at the opposite end. Though not easily visibly from the courtyard, the royal quarters were actually at the base of the White Tower, resting at the top of the Citadel above its grand meeting halls, dining rooms, and other living quarters. The suite itself faced the city, the many grand windows and balconies adding to its luxurious appearance. This hallway and the steps at its other side were the only way to access the Tower of Ecthelion, and that entrance was nestled at a location not easily reached. The Tower itself was not often used, for now it housed only empty offices, old books, and abandoned beds once used by the stewards of old. A few items of special import, such as the  _palantír_ , were stored in its lofty securities. Only the king and his closest advisers were permitted within its looming rooms. Normally the Citadel Guard would flank this hallway, guarding both their liege's abode and the base of the tower. Now it was completely empty. As he walked, Aragorn's panic was mounting. He was rapidly running out of time.

They reached the double doors that led into winding stairways, the great wooden structures decorated with a large, elegant carving of the White Tree and its stars. The banners of Gondor hung from the vaulted ceiling, lifeless and despondent. He kept his eyes ahead, pausing as he grasped the knobs of the large doors. For a moment he wondered if Holis was still behind him, for he heard nothing. Then a short breath. "The doors, Elessar. Open them. And then we climb, yes?"

"Yes," Aragorn murmured, feeling the fine hairs on the back of his neck rise in tingling fright. "We climb."

"Good. Go."

He turned the knobs, struggling to simply obey and quiet the keening of his miserably trapped heart. Grunting, he pulled open the heavy doors, opening the path to Legolas. The image he had seen in the  _palantír_  filled his mind again, and he shuddered. He would never have looked if he had known that information would so cruelly be used against him now! He would have remained oblivious to the Elf's location, and no amount of cruelty or anger from Holis would have been able to wrest an answer from his lips or push his feet upon a road. So many seemingly unrelated and impossible twists and turns had come together to produce this instant, and he hated them all with the fiery passion of a betrayed soul.  _But if you had not seen…_  He shuddered to think of Arwen slain by Holis' rage.

The steps appeared before him, rising in an elegant curve after a short entrance filled with a few beautiful statues of the kings of old. Dim gray light, turned dour and dark by the storm and the setting sun, washed the stairs, streaming through the periodic windows. Aragorn found he could not breathe as he stepped inside, his legs and feet moving before Holis lost his patience.  _Pushed,_  his racing mind bitterly spat against the confines of his skull.  _Forced. Taken. I am weak. I deserve death for the wrongs I have done and continue to do. I failed my nation and my friends. I bound my own hands with my guilt and grief. Now I lead Legolas' tormentor to him._ These thoughts echoed over and over again within him, beating him down, ripping at the last shreds of his sanity and hope, tearing at his heart.  _I cannot save Arwen. I cannot save either of them! I can do naught but walk! Pushed again. Pushed and punished._

The silence was crushing, deafening. Filling it was only the sound of feet striking steps, of beating hearts, of weak, fearful breaths. Even Holis was too tense to speak, sparing them his conceited rhetoric as they ascended the Tower of Ecthelion. Forever they seemed to climb, though Aragorn knew from prior ventures to this place that the distance was not so great. Each fall of his feet upon the stone was slow and tedious. His mind wandered. He imagined again the steward's office where Legolas lay, seeing it clearly as though the scene was before him. He felt the smoothness of the  _palantír_  beneath his fingertips, the coldness of the air about him, the darkness of Denethor's tomb. He had not thought of it much at the time, but fate had an uncanny manner of turning the most seemingly insignificant points into matters of sudden and damning import. Who could have known that placing their seeing stone safely with Legolas in the Tower would impart upon him this knowledge? Who could have foreseen that, in their darkest hour, he would choose to look into the dark orb and divine the fates of his friends?

The room was ahead, the one he had seen in the vision. He closed his eyes in disbelief as the stairs deposited them in a short hallway. A few doors lined the walls, but only one was large and fine enough to mark the office. He did not want to stop before it, to reveal it to be the one they sought, but he did. And Holis paused behind him, pulling on Arwen's hair until the Elf halted her steps. Aragorn swallowed, though his throat had grown thick and dry with fear, and touched the knob. He could not breathe for his heart was pounding and his lungs were clenched. He twisted it.

But it was locked.

Surprise rattled him, holding him for a moment. Then he jostled the knob again, the metal cold to his sweaty, hot fingers. Still it refused to open. The king froze, uncertain of the implications of this moment, frightened and excited at once.

"What is it?" Holis demanded. The man was obviously becoming quite impatient.

Aragorn tried to keep his tone calm, forcing a measure of strength into his voice that was a vast exaggeration of that which he actually possessed. "The door is secured," he commented, turning the knob and demonstrating its state with the clank of unyielding metal. He turned to look at the emperor, steeling his expression.

Holis was livid. His eyes burned dangerously, and a sneer of utter fury was twisting his handsome face. "Open that door, Elessar," he hissed.

"I cannot!" Aragorn snapped, his anger making his words clipped and brusque. He glared at his captor, furious and frightened. "I do not have the key!"

Holis shoved Arwen against the wall, causing the queen to yelp painfully, and tangled his hand into the thick mess of her dark hair. He yanked her head, her face pressed against white stone, and gripped her about the back of her neck. The knife came to rest at her back. Her chest rose and fell with fearful breaths. "You lie to me!" the emperor shouted. The rage he exuded terrified the king. "You will not lie to me! You must have it! You must!"

Aragorn shook his head, panic reducing him to simple denial. Vaguely he marveled at how Holis' obsession had reduced the careful plotter to a blind fool in a quick breath and blink. The man's temper flared, washing away any semblance of control or logic. "I do not!" Aragorn declared, watching the storm of insanity growing within Holis. He was frantic to do something, seeing the knife linger dangerously closely to his wife's flesh. Words seemed a poor weapon, but they were all he had. "I would give it to you if I did! I do not know where it is!"

Arwen cried out. In the jostling, the blindfold had come free from her face, and he could now see her eyes. The blue orbs, red with tears and wide with fear, sought his, and immediately he knew.  _No. Oh, no…_  A moment of endless silence transpired in which husband and wife merely shared this horrible fact between them. The realization hurt Aragorn, stabbing him with the cruelty of all of fate's fickle tricks, and he wanted to scream.

By the time the quiet instant had ended, Holis, as well, understood. The emperor's face hardened into that of a vicious, driven wraith, and he looked to the Elf he held violently against the corridor's icy wall. "It was you," he breathed in disbelief. He gave a choked laugh, and the horrible sound spoke of his mounting madness. "You knew where he was all along. Into my very hands the peace I sought was thrust, and I did not see…" The words faded. His hearty laughter, bred from the sort of silliness only complete despair and desperation can produce, filled the room. Arwen cast upon him a vicious glare, the strength of her spirit evident in her powerful gaze. It was a challenge, and while Aragorn admired her determination, he pleaded silently that she not do this.

But it was too late. Holis had come to the same realization that had moments before graced Aragorn, and now he would not be deterred. His hands flew toward the Elf, turning her around violently, and began tearing wildly at her clothes. He shook her skirt, pulling at the cloth about her hips, madly searching for the key he now knew she possessed. Arwen's scream, though muffled, cut through Aragorn's haze of horror, and the king sprung forward. He tackled the emperor, and both of them fell in a mess of tangled limbs, rolling down the hallway as they struggled wildly. The impact upon the ground jostled Aragorn, and his head happened to slam into the wall. The pain squeezed him wickedly, and he spent a moment drifting in a sea of vertigo. Vaguely he felt himself being rolled, a weight atop him. Then that mass was gone.

He shook his head as though that could clear the tears and blurriness from his vision. Arwen had stumbled as well, and she now lay on her side, struggling desperately to turn herself onto her back. With her hands bound and her legs tangled in her long, sullied skirt, it was a difficult and slow act. Holis was atop her instantly, and the sight of the man straddled his wife's hapless form enraged Aragorn. He pushed his body upward, but his limbs were bent and hurt. Arwen screamed.

There was a glint in front of him on the floor. The knife!

He lunged for it, but by the time he grasped its warm hilt, it was too late. Holis had found his prize, and he held it reverently for a moment, looking at it wide with eyes. Then the man was staggering to his feet and jabbing the key towards the lock upon the door.

"No!" Aragorn cried, struggling to stand. But the man had opened the portal already. If he escaped inside, he could lock the entrance behind him! He moved without thinking. As much as he despised leaving Arwen bound as such, he knew she was safe now, as trussed as she was, and unless he stopped this, Legolas would die. Holis charged inside the room, opening the door only wide enough for himself to slip through before slamming it shut again.

Aragorn ran into the hard wooden surface too late, but he refused to be defeated. He grabbed the knob and twisted it sharply to the right, holding it firmly even though it was being yanked and pulled in the opposite direction on the other side. He leaned into the door, pouring all his weight upon it, digging his heels into the ground and shoving with all his might. The door quivered, twitching upon its hinges with the opposing forces put upon it. The king grunted, bearing his teeth, swearing to himself that he would not stop. His arms burned and his body hurt horribly, but he would not stop!

Then the door suddenly swung open. It struck the wall behind it with a horribly loud bang, and Aragorn, too shocked to regain his balance, pitched forward into the room. He scrambled to right himself, his eyes darting about wildly. He saw the desk. The dusty books. The dismal daylight entering through partially drawn curtains. Rugs and tapestries. The  _palantír_ , its swirl of black and purple lazily twisting in the sun as it rested upon the desk, uncovered and mesmerizing. But Holis… he was gone.

The king jerked into motion. Logic somehow gained power over his panic. He turned, drawing shorts breaths, and staggered outside to his wife. Arwen watched him with fearful eyes. She had managed to right herself, propping her hindered form against the wall and gasping for breath through the gag. Aragorn knelt beside her, rapidly using the dagger he had procured to slice through her bonds. "Are you hurt?" he asked breathlessly, pulling the cloth from her mouth. He nearly sobbed at the sight of the bruises marring her pale cheeks.

"No," she whispered hoarsely. She swallowed uncertainly, fighting to rid her wrists of the coarse remains of the bindings. She stood, her normal grace flawed by her distress as she gathered her torn garments about her. "We must stop him!"

"Run," he ordered, releasing her only at the behest of his screaming panic, "and get help." She nodded, knowing there was no opportunity to argue. She turned and rushed down the winding stairs, her skirts fluttering. Aragorn gripped the knife tightly, drawing a deep breath, and then entered the door that lay open before him.

There was no longer any hesitation or apprehension. No longer did he ponder this step or that, wondering at the shadows drifting about the quarters, fearing at the demons that might attack him should he not expect them. He was beyond such things. He had nothing now, no one besides Legolas. And if he did not act now to fight for his friend, he would lose him, too.

So he charged through the entrance to the bedroom. And then he stopped.

"And now, the end."

Aragorn could not breathe. Holis stood beside the bed, his back to the king, the flowing length of his sable cloak motionless as he remained perfectly still. The long glint of a silver blade appeared at his side, the naked sword extending from the edge of the man's body. Aragorn's eyes mindlessly darted to the bed, following Holis' gaze. Legolas lay upon it, covered with a heavy, red quilt, his head turned slightly to the side. The Elf's flaxen hair spread about on the pillow, dull and lifeless as it lay over the white fabric. Upon his face were faded bruises and scrapes. He was still, unmoving, barely even breathing. His eyes were shut, ringed in darkness, sealed against the terrors of the outside world. Against the terror that loomed over him.

For a long moment, neither man moved. The only sound was the muffled roar of the battle still occurring on the streets far below them. Time seemed to pause, uncertain in its next motion, waiting tensely for a sign as to the correct path upon which to now march. Aragorn's body ached with a pressing need to run forth and protect his helpless friend, but he did not dare. The sword, held so innocently at Holis' side, screamed a warning as it glinted in the waning sunlight. Terrified at the other's apparent stasis, Aragorn remained still himself, barely breathing, every muscle taut, his heart pounding. His eyes darted between the tip of the sword and Legolas' still, oblivious face.

There was a long breath, one that shook as though laden with weeping. "I dreamed a dream," Holis whispered, his voice faint. Aragorn swallowed fearfully, chancing a single step into the room. The emperor appeared not to notice. "It seemed impossible. Riding I was, through the streets of this place, carried by a wind of clear victory and powerful exultation. The day was won, I thought, but in this I was wrongly premature. There was a pain in my side, and I looked upward, feeling something pierce my heart as the agony had my flesh. I did not know how, but my eyes focused upon a single sight without a moment spent in fruitless search. I saw him, bathed in the fire of a burning city. Yet he was undaunted. Beautiful. Powerful. Renewed. His great bow he held, the string vibrating still from a mighty strike. And his arrow was in my body."

Aragorn could barely make sense of the statements. All of his faculties were lost from him as he took another tentative step into the room. "It was a vision come to me, heralding a future I knew to be impossible, and yet for all the want of my confidence I could not convince myself of its lie." There was a shifting of cloth. Aragorn now stood at the foot of the bed, watching Holis' face in profile. A tear had snaked its way down the man's bronzed cheek. "Now I see I was mistaken to doubt. He remains mine, and what I saw was but a figment of a fear long conquered."

The man's hands suddenly reached for the bed. As if doubting his own words or seeking to lend credence to their claim, he yanked the blankets away from Legolas, casting them aside. The Elf did not move, his limbs resettling weightlessly, his body clad in loose bedclothes. Beneath the white tunic, stretching beneath the waist of his breeches, Aragorn saw the bandages wrapped about his friend's belly. He stepped forward but then stopped, unsure of what Holis might do if he should interfere. At such a close proximity, the man could easily murder the prince.

However, remaining still was a strenuous, vindictive torture. Holis' hand reached down and pulled Legolas' upward, and he held the Elf's wrist tightly. Legolas remained deathly still as the emperor paused a terribly long while, pressing his fingers to Legolas' flesh in search of a pulse. Then the man smiled and commented, almost in awe of himself, "He yet lives, chained to the existence I have crafted for him. He did  _not_  rise against me. It was only a dream." A short laugh. "Yes, a dream. And a dream now, for I have longed for this." The man's lascivious eyes devoured the limp form before him. Legolas' helplessness clearly excited him. His fingers swept down the Elf's bruised cheek. "Locked in a perpetual torment. Broken before me." Holis leaned downward and covered Legolas' lips with his own. Aragorn swallowed a cry of rage and revulsion as the emperor deepened the horrid kiss. And when the man leaned back, he smiled as though sated. "To share the final breath of the undying… Such is my power."

Aragorn could stand no more. "Leave him alone," he snarled, raising the dagger. "You will spread your filth upon him no longer."

Holis turned as if he had suddenly come to realize he was not alone. His hand left Legolas' face. "And you will stop me, Elessar?" he questioned. "You, a mere man in the face of gods and immortals? I think not. And yet I wonder why you now struggle so fiercely for all that remains of your friend. Nothing can hide the horrors of what I have done to him. You have seen it. You have seen the monster I have made of his peace. You fight a futile fight. What do you hope to accomplish? You cannot save him. You will draw blood, die even, for the mere husk of his body. You seek his soul? I shall tell you, Elessar. You fight for Legolas, but he is gone. There is no Legolas."

"No!"

"And what there was is mine."

Tears made Aragorn's eyes sting and the awful scene before him blur. "He does not belong to you," he declared, his tone rough with emotion. "He belongs to no one. You may have raped his body and shattered his mind, but you are a fool to think you have taken anything from him."

Holis laughed as though amused by the prospect, but his voice was humorless. "Haughty words! You crave what he offers as much as I. While I hungered for his submission, you labored for his love. Nothing frightens you as much as the prospect of winning this fight and losing the Elf. Worse still, you fear you may miraculously return him to you from the  _thral-gûl_  only to find the respect and regard he once held for you to be horribly tainted by hatred and betrayal." Aragorn flinched, fighting not to believe the bombardment of painful words. Holis immediately detected his weakness and attacked. "And it will be. You broke his confidence. You dismissed his misery. You  _turned him away_. You forced his sick body and hurting spirit to fight for your cause. As I have said before, it was you who delivered him to my whims, and he will not forget that. He will not forget the things I have shown him, the sight of your gleeful eyes watching as his blood was beat from his body, the feel of your lips roughly scraping his skin and your hands touching what is not meant to be touched. He will recall begging you to stop, to spare him this heinous, unholy torture. And he will remember that you did not listen."

He felt sick, the words conjuring forth images that twisted his world and tormented him. But he dismissed these things. He had to, summoning the shield of strength and hope to block the weapons of words from his spirit. "No. Legolas is stronger than you," Aragorn declared, his jaw quivering with the depths of his rage. He remembered what he had learned when he had looked through the  _palantír_ , about how Holis had stoked the fires of Legolas' rage with the illusion that his friends had tortured him. Such a thing had not been real. For all the power lies possessed, the truth would always persevere. He had to have faith in that! "He knows these things as false. You do not have the power to keep him down."

The man's eyes suddenly blazed with ire. "Power? Power! Do you doubt what I have done? He will not rise against me! He will never stand again! I have taken him, and he will never see through the illusion I have set upon him. His mind is scattered, his soul trapped. He is broken by my hand! He cannot defy me! He knows not the truth in all the misery I have put upon him, and he cannot question that I control him. He hates you, not me, and his hate is his most powerful weapon! He will never defy me!"

"You jealous thief. You hide behind fine language and smart falsehoods, but you are nothing more than a little man seeking that which he cannot have." Aragorn watched as his own words became knives and daggers and arrows, piercing Holis' exterior to drive to the man's heart. He remembered that day on the field when he had asserted his strength and labeled the man as nothing more than a rapist. The man's insecurity would prove his downfall. "You came for my kingdom. You came for my friends. You took everything I held dear. But you could never possess what is not freely given. You dominated Legolas because he challenged you, defied you. Yet there was one part of him that you could not, for all your power, touch. His love for me."

"Ha! You are a fool, Aragorn, if you think Legolas loves you still."

Aragorn would not be dissuaded. "I  _know_  he does."

Holis did not answer. For once, the man was bereft of words, and a lengthy quiet passed filled with tumultuous tension. Aragorn never looked away from the face of his nemesis, knowing now his strength could not falter. The moment slipped away, slithering past them as though frightened and ashamed. Then Holis gave a small, rueful smile. "It is fitting, then, that our final confrontation should occur over that which neither of us was willing to sacrifice."

The man turned completely, swinging his sword upward to hold it before his face. It was then that Aragorn noted the man held not his sword at all but Andúril. The king's breath locked in his throat, a cold sheen of sweat bathing his terrified, tense body. A wave of anger followed, leaving his heart thundering and his form shaking in anger. "You truly are a coward," he sneered, stepping back and holding the knife before him. "To pluck my blade from a young man's hands and brandish it against me."

"And you are a fool for sending a boy into my realm bearing such a mighty prize," the emperor coolly responded. They circled each other slowly, two opponents gauging each other, fighting to detect strengths and weaknesses.

Aragorn narrowed his eyes. This did not bode well for him. He had learned from Faramir so many days past that Holis was a superb swordsman, gifted with speed, agility, and strength that harkened to the Firstborn. Further, the man wielded a grand sword. He had only a knife with which to defend himself. He fought to hide his fear. "You and I are not the same." His voice was low and even, filled with the promise of peril. "We never have been, and, by my honor, we never will be.  _Never._ "

Holis released a cry of rage and suddenly advanced upon him, lifting Andúril and sweeping down in a grand arc. The blade sung as it slashed through the air in a shining line, striking nothingness where the king had moments before been standing. Aragorn swiped at Holis with the dagger, but the emperor proved quick as well, stepping aside and easily avoiding the blow. Only the song of light feet and slashing weapons filled the room as the two fought, knife against sword. Hearts hammered. Breaths were short and quick as each warrior danced, avoiding the advances of the other with feigns, counters, and agile reflexes.

And when they were finished, both of their faces were covered in sweat. Aragorn panted, satisfied to see Holis doing much the same. The emperor slumped slightly, and though the sign was subtle, Aragorn was a trained healer and an experienced warrior. Holis' wound was troubling him. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage. Truthfully, it mattered little. All the damage done to him, the blows recently struck to his head, his aching chest and hurting arms, his exhaustion, would only hinder him too. The strain of these days past was suddenly pressing upon him fully. He doubted, armed as he was, this was a fight he could win. Though he loathed offering this man any sort of amnesty, he was more worried that he would falter and be wounded or killed. Legolas would have no one to protect him. Finally he regained his wind, and he shook his head. "It is over, Holis. There is nothing for you now. Surrender. Even if you slay me, a thousand men stand between you and any chance of escape."

The man rose to his full height, his stature tall and impressive. His face was calm, devoid of emotion, and his eyes were dark and steely. "Such an end will be pleasurable," he said, "if I can cut your heart from your chest with your own blade!" The last of his words escalated into a furious shout, and he leapt forward, cutting downward with the sword. Aragorn side-stepped lithely, ducking to avoid the killing blow and twirling in hopes of sinking his knife into the expose flank of his opponent. But Holis had anticipated the move and twisted, jabbing his elbow into Aragorn's jaw.

The king fell back with a cry, his teeth clacking together, blood filling his mouth. His stance was destroyed, the inertia of the blow shoving him from his feet, and he stumbled over a chair that had been set by the bed. Down he went, his feet tangled with the wooden limbs of the furniture, tipping it as he struggled. He hit the ground hard, the arm of the chair slamming into this midsection and pushing the air from his chest. The legs of the chair broke under his weight. A daze threatened him, but he felt more than heard Holis behind him. Panic pushed his throbbing, dizzy body into action, and he rolled to the side, just barely missing the rapid, violent swing downward. Andúril cleaved the seat of the overturned chair with a loud thud and a spray of wood. He had barely avoided it.

Aragorn mindlessly scrambled away, fighting to gather his wits. He coughed, his body shaking as it demanded his aching lungs and bruised chest replenish a dwindling supply of air. Blood dripped from his lips, splattering to the floor as he crawled away. How quickly the battle had turned dire! Holis advanced on him, smiling gleefully, his face shining with perspiration. "You pathetic fool!" he taunted, watching in satisfaction as the king crawled away, choking for air, dribbling red in a gruesome trail. The king arched his back, screaming hoarsely as Holis rammed his foot into his spine. The agony spread like fire through his body, and he sagged. Everything felt distant, sound swallowed by the heated rush of his frantic heart, and shadows threatened the blurry world. "You dare to defy me! You are nothing, Elessar. Nothing! You stand before a god!" Another kick struck him, smashing his battered body into the floor. He did not have the breath to cry his misery. "A god!"

There was a pause. Rushed breathing filled the void. Holis raised his sword above his head, his eyes wild and his nostrils flaring as he prepared to drive it deeply into the body sprawled at his feet. "A vengeful, wrathful god…"

 _No!_  Aragorn released a hurt, angry yell from deep within his chest as he twisted his body around with energy he did not know he possessed. He brought his hand up quicker than the eye could detect and sank the knife into Holis' thigh. The reaction was immediate. The emperor howled his agony, lowering his blade and grasping the wound as blood began to rush from it. He shook with his rage and pain, grabbing the hilt and yanking the weapon free. The blade was stained with blood, and he tossed it aside in disgust.

Surprised, his mind swimming in a painful sea of dizzying, miserable waves, Aragorn did not think to move away. Crimson liquid spilled from the gaping hole in the man's leg, but he seemed hardly hindered so lost was he in his rage. He leaned downward, grabbing Aragorn's tunic with one hand, balling the bloody fingers in the cloth. With amazing strength, he hauled the alarmed king to his feet and hurled him against the wall. Aragorn staggered when he struck the hard surface, his knees failing him almost instantly. Death was coming for him. He knew it. He could feel it in the deep recesses of his heart, in his bones and blood, in his spirit. The pain was too much.

Holis' rage was terrifying in its brutal fury. His black eyes were no longer empty but filled with the lust for blood as he struck the ailing king across the face. Aragorn choked, tears streaming from his eyes as he sagged, the force of the blow sending him down once more. It hurt so much! He merely wanted this to end, to find some semblance of rest and peace. He did not know what lay for him beyond this world, but certainly it offered a measure of eternal tranquility. He was tired. So very tired.

"I make the sun rise and set," Holis hissed. The words were lost in his mind, skirting the edges of his receding consciousness. They were without meaning, without consequence. "It is my will that my dream comes true. You are powerless. I have made you so." The shadows were filling him, stealing from him his final breaths as Holis threatened him with the sword of the king. He did not want to let go. He was scared, terrified, that all had come to ruin. His life mattered so little now. His kingdom was destroyed. His family maimed and mutilated. His friend lost to him forever. They could never go back to the days before, to the beautiful peace and unending prosperity. As afraid as he was of death, life frightened him even more.

" _And you would be a fool not to have those fears."_  A soft, loving voice spoke from within him, echoing from the last bit of his fading soul.  _"They are what make you strong. They remind you of the price of failure, and that will tie you truer to victory than any ambition or dream. They keep you human. He boasts no such power."_  He clung to it, allowing its warmth to grow and spread energy and light over his weary form.  _"And that is why you will defeat him."_

Aragorn pushed himself forward, springing from the confines of death to challenge his opponent once more. His blood-covered hands grabbed Holis', pushing the sword away from him. The emperor grunted, latching vise-like fingers about his neck and squeezing mercilessly. This contest of strengths continued for a torturous instant before the power of love and life granted Aragorn the vigor to defy. With a mighty cry, he leaned up upon the wall. He wedged his knee between Holis and himself and pushed powerfully. The sudden force upon the other man's chest was enough to break Holis' hold upon him. Hands slipped as they fell, and Andúril flew from the emperor's fingers, clattering to the floor away from them both.

The king had landed on top of the emperor, and he used his weight to bowl the other man down onto the ground. Now his red, slick hands found their way to close about Holis' throat. He applied crushing pressure, seeking to wring the very life from this demon's body. The weight of all Holis had done fell upon him, rushing in horrific images before his eyes, and he could not find it within himself to let the man go. The emperor coughed, his face turning red, his eyes filled with desperate tears as they squinted. Aragorn did not care that he suffered. He would kill him. He would kill him with his bare, bloody hands. "You are wrong! You will not win this!" he hissed, his voice shaking. The man coughed, barely clinging to awareness. "I will kill you!"

The crimson, murderous haze had blinded him such that he did not notice Holis' hand desperately and blindly searching about him for any weapon to avail him. His fingers closed about the severed, wooden leg from the broken chair, and he struck Aragorn across the side of the head with it. Pain, heated and horrible, burst over him, and as he fell to the side, he could not see. Forever he seemed to tumble, a twisted, tortured thing in an abyss of hot agony.

And when he came to his senses again, he realized his anger had again cursed him to a horrible fate.

Only Aragorn's panic willed his body to scramble backwards as Holis advanced on him. The man had somehow found the fallen knife, and this he wielded against the fallen king. His eyes were burning with madness, his face twisted into a horrid, red, gleeful grimace. His immaculate hair was mussed, and he was covered with blood. Aragorn could not breathe, terror holding his heart still as he fumbled to escape. His back hit the wall. There was nowhere left to run!

The dagger glowed violently, dripping blood. "When will you realize?" Holis gasped as he towered over the hapless king. Aragorn's eyes widened, a final, desperate plea for life, for absolution, for a last chance beating through his shivering form. Tears filled his eyes. Holis smiled, panting. A monster borne from the flesh of man and the evil of a dark lord. A nightmare made of a dream. He raised the knife to deliver the ultimate strike. "I… always…  _win_."

The knife descended.

In one short breath, it was over, and the dagger fell to the floor.

Aragorn watched the knife strike the stones below them, unable to understand as it tumbled at what appeared to be a greatly reduced speed. Finally it hit with a clang that seemed loud and monumental. He stared numbly at the blade as it came to a rest, its bloody edge now idle. He did not understand!

And then he looked up.

The tip of Andúril protruded from Holis' chest. The emperor stood perfectly still, his eyes locked in absolute horror on the steel that exited his body with a spray of blood. For a long time he lingered, suspended by intangible, invisible forces, watching the sight as though waking from a long and grotesque dream. Red began to spill in a lazy torrent, dripping down to splash silently on the floor between Aragorn's legs. Both men were silent. Holis looked up, his face frozen into an expression of complete shock, his black eyes glazing with the coming of his end. His lips may have moved, but no sound issued from them. Then he slid from the sword and fell to the ground with a heavy thud, very much dead.

Aragorn instinctively recoiled, watching with wide eyes at the body at his feet. What grace had been given to him! His mind, lost in surprise, horror, and turmoil, could not comprehend this blessing! Elation came quickly, a sob wrenching from his throat, and he stood.

Andúril came to rest at his brow.

There were no thoughts to be had, no words to be said, no emotions to suffer. In this moment, there was nothing save the sight before him, for all the world had disappeared. Legolas stood, tall, stiff, both of his hands wrapped around Andúril's hilt as he held the deadly tip to the king's head. The Elf was utterly still, his face tense in an expression of empty rage, his dark eyes narrowed. The sword never wavered. Aragorn slowly looked down, terrified, bitterly cursing this final fate. Perhaps Legolas had found the truth in the misery forced upon him. But the truth, as powerful as it was, was not enough to redeem him.

They were still for many moments. Aragorn did not dare to breathe. He did not want to die, but he was willing to accept this destiny if it was his to bear. He knew he deserved no less. The blood would never be free from his hands. He had failed in so many ways that any success, even one so large as saving his nation, seemed trite and meaningless. To the remains of his friend, a monster still, it meant nothing. He would submit to this.

Thus he averted his gaze, unclenching his hands from the tense fists at his sides and opening them to his friend to indicate his acceptance. He would not fight. He could not any more. Andúril drifted downward ever so slowly, passing his nose and mouth and neck, sinking to point towards his heart. The king drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, waiting for this last moment to pass.

But it did not. And when he again opened his eyes, he was not staring at a gaze of terror and torment, at a haunted demon borne from black magic. He saw blue, weak and wondering, frightened and faithful. Those eyes were reaching towards him, and a bond, tentative but true, was renewed. The shadows receded, and the light appeared.

Andúril hit the floor with a dull clank, and Legolas fell forward. Aragorn caught him, engulfing the Elf in his arms, and together they sank to the ground. Warmth rushed over him, love and brotherhood filling his spirit with life once more. He hugged Legolas to him tightly, loud, happy sobs escaping his throat. He rocked back and forth mindlessly, his weary senses feasting upon a dream he had thought impossible. There was substance against him, cool, smooth skin, soft hair under his cheek, a faint, familiar scent of woods filling his body with each weeping breath. His friend in his arms, weak and terribly still, but alive. This was real. This was true. He need not look further, and all that lay beyond could remain distant.

The setting sun burst through the remains of the storm, casting the dark clouds aside and washing them in sparkling light. Love was restored, and it brought with it the glimmer of a new future.

The end could now come.


	41. Lost in It

And the end did come, but it did not herald all once thought promised. As it had before, in another time and place, in another mind, it brought nothing, leaving hearts aching and unsatisfied, straining for a sense of absolution and restoration that was simply forbidden. The silence that had long claimed the spirit did not abate. Instead, it grew stronger, filling in a vacancy where a black and evil purpose had once resided. Now there was very little left, that heavy quiet draping its cold hands around a once vibrant being. A chest rose and fell. Breath entered and left between lips. A heart beat, tiredly, weakly. But these things were not the gifts of a restored glory. These were only the remains of a fight long ago abandoned.

Aragorn lifted his head from the edge of the bed, blinking reddened eyes as he looked tiredly out the frost-laden window of Legolas' room. A fire burned brightly in the blackened hearth, but despite the warmth pushing winter's chill into the far corners of the room, he felt cold and empty. He thought he must have drifted to sleep, for he had no memory of leaning forward in his chair to rest his heavy limbs upon the blankets. He wiped a hand down his face, his fingers tracing over the now fading bruises and cuts upon his cheeks as he brushed away the lingering malaise. He looked to Legolas, but nothing had changed. He did not know why he expected anything to.

More than a week had passed since that endless day and awful battle. At the time, as he had fought to regain the shattered pieces of his life, the passage of hours had seemed long and miserable. Now, as he thought back upon it, these few days had been but short breaths and hurried moments. Hope served to apply a hefty lethargy to the walk of time, and anticipation had left him frustrated and yearning. Settling back into a life that had nearly ended was no small task. Contending with a disaster of this magnitude seemed impossible.

Much had happened. Too much. Not enough. Minas Tirith, ravaged by the war, was only beginning to lift itself from the crushing grips of a near defeat. Approximately a third of its population had been claimed in the struggle, and the death toll hung over the White City as a funeral pall did a coffin. The army, now occupying its home once more, had suffered a tremendous loss as well, its numbers reduced by nearly a half of its original might. The metropolis itself had been quite battered also. The third gate was devastated, burned and mangled, and many repairs would be required to restore it to some semblance of use. Similarly, the houses and streets surrounding it had received the brunt of the Haradrim's fiery siege, the catapults having reduced many of the buildings to smoldering rubble. The streets were filthy, cluttered with the dead and with battle debris. The Citadel was in shambles. The sheer amount of damage done to the once beautiful city was astounding and disturbing. The wound upon their home reminded them all that this recovery would be long, strenuous, and tedious.

Aragorn released a heavy breath and leaned into the plush chair, the stiff muscles of his back and neck angrily protesting the movement with a few annoying pangs of hurt. He grimaced, rubbing his brow and the bridge of his nose absently in an effort to relieve a headache brought on by too much thought and too little sleep. Only now, days and days after Holis' death, was he able to convince himself that it was truly over. His mind knew this fact, every question of his advisers as to his plans, every thought of how to contend with this difficulty or that, every second spent calming his racing heart, reminding him that the war had ended. The threat was over. Yet his heart was less willing to accept it. The terror that had for days claimed him, twisting his will and body to its bidding, was slow to release him from its prison. It was a difficult thing, far more so than he had expected, to engage again in a normal existence. Some things did not feel safe or restored. Many things, in truth. He lay in bed at night, unable to sleep, Arwen's body gathered in his arms as he traced the buttresses of the vaulted ceiling with his eyes. At first, it was the endless, burdensome activity of the day that cluttered his head, making his thoughts race with worry and woe. But when these things faded, he heard voices whisper to him from the shadows. Haunting apparitions of demons now dead plagued him, and he was still afraid to close his eyes and greet the nightmare he knew to be waiting. Had anything changed? Had anything changed at all?

He looked to Legolas.  _No. Everything remains as it was._

The familiar rage tickled his heart, but he was too tired to acknowledge it. Though seven days blurred and faded in his mind, the memory of all that had occurred after the terrible fight in the Tower remained painfully vivid and fresh. For an eternity, it seemed, he had sat against the wall, holding Legolas against him with such strong energy in his arms as to never now let his friend go. But the Elf had slipped away. Perhaps Legolas had faded the minute he had dropped the sword from Aragorn's chest. The king could not honestly say, for the sheer potency of his joy had blinded him to all besides the triumph of their reunion. Only when the sun had again slipped behind the darkening clouds and his own sobs had quieted had he realized all was not well. The body in his arms was cold and limp. How quickly his horror had returned when he noticed Legolas was again unconscious. Shouts had done nothing. Sobs had failed him. Pleas fell upon ears that did not hear as he shook the limp form in his arms desperately. Aragorn closed his eyes now as the memory his own frantic voice reverberated inside his skull.  _"Legolas, no! Do not fade from me! Fight this! Come back, my friend! You cannot succumb now. Oh, please, stay with me. Stay with me, Legolas…"_  But it had already been too late. He had screamed his misery.

It was perhaps the cruelest trick of all. They had come through so much, weathered such pain, torture, and danger, only to arrive at what felt to be the very place they had started. Éomer, Arwen, and a slew of soldiers had appeared later, though Aragorn did not truly know how much time had escaped him in his anguish. Repeated attempts to rouse Legolas had failed. The Elf was lost to them, his face slack, his eyes once again closed, his body limp in their arms. The only sign that he had lived at all was the weak rattle of his breath from him. The same weak rattle to which Aragorn now listened.

It had taken some measure of composure on the part of his wife to untangle Legolas from his tight grasp. Éomer had pulled the limp Elf into his arms, casting a disturbed look towards Holis' body sprawled across the floor. The young king's face had been pale as he had rushed from the room bearing the lifeless prince. Aragorn had merely sat, torn inside and out, and Arwen had drawn his tormented body into her embrace. She had said nothing, perhaps because she could find no words to make right any of Aragorn's pain. And when he had felt her tears soak into his shoulder, he had known beyond any doubt that that horrible end was indeed true.

The remainder of the day was little more than a blur to him, for a deep sense of detachment had stolen his mind from his body leaving only a zombie that moved and observed but did not feel. He heard voices, saw faces and places, felt his various hurts being treated and his grimy, bloody skin being cleaned. Then he had simply collapsed from his exhaustion. Everything had come down hard upon him, shoving him into oblivion, and he had been too weary and devastated to fight. He vaguely recalled a silly fantasy flitting through his mind as he had tumbled into slumber. A child's thought, really, or a fool's. He had imagined that if he had simply gone to sleep, when he awoke the next morning, everything would be better.

But it was not. It never was. In this bitter thought Aragorn realized he was being cynical. Certainly it was wonderful now to be triumphant, to have defeated the enemy and reclaimed his life. Certainly it was beautiful to see Arwen safe, to hear Éowyn's voice, to know Éomer's confidence was returning, to watch Gimli's eyes glimmer with the hint of a laugh. Certainly it was grand to see the banners of the White Tower flying atop the seventh gate once more. Still, even the sweetest moments where he could relax and almost forget the misery that had nearly taken from him everything he held dear were tainted. He knew they had emerged from this terrible trial victorious, but that was poor consolation, a meager weapon against the shadows that threatened him every time his mind wandered. Perhaps he had won, but in his heart he did not feel it.

Holis had said as much. His last words, spoken with the madness of a murderer, resonated within Aragorn. He hated the dead villain for his cruelty, but greater than this was the mounting fear that the man had been right. Beyond his death, beyond his failed quest to conquer Gondor and dominate Aragorn, his dream still lived.

The king sighed softly. He had spilled so many tears that he had none left to cry. He pulled the chair closer to the head of the bed, and his hands drew Legolas' limp fingers into his own. He held the pale digits between his rough palms, and he looked to his dear friend's face once more. Nothing had changed. Legolas had not moved, his cheeks so terribly pale, his eyes tightly closed. Aragorn watched his friend's empty face for a long moment, burning to his mind the same image that plagued his dreams and haunted every moment of peace. Legolas had been taken and transformed so many times before his eyes, but to this shell, this empty husk, he could not adjust. This was not his friend. The Elf he knew and loved would not choose death over life. The brother he cherished would not submit. He stared at that face for many moments until he could almost convince himself he saw an eyelash flutter or lips shift ever so slightly. Hope rose in him, speeding his heart automatically, and he held the archer's hand tighter. "Legolas?" he questioned. His voice was so loud despite its hesitant tone. "Legolas, open your eyes. Please."

The Elf remained comatose. Aragorn watched his face intently for a moment longer, his skin tingling with attention to any change in the pressure Legolas' fingers put upon it. His hand did not move, though, and his face was still. Empty. Aragorn was not certain what had become of Legolas' soul. Surely the Elf had broken the black curse put upon him. The  _thral-gûl_  was gone, lifted from his friend's body and mind. The king knew this beyond any doubt. Though many things of that day were hazy, he did recall the look in Legolas' eyes when the shadow had released him. He remembered the blue orbs shining with all the light of the Eldar for the briefest moment. Then he had seen his friend, emerging from beneath the smothering hold of Holis' foul craft, perhaps not whole but certainly himself. To say he understood anything of what Legolas had endured or continued to suffer would be little more than a lie; so many twists had been placed into this tale, both by Holis' foul lips and his own desperate thoughts, that he was not sure of anything anymore. He did not know what the black magic had wrought, or how Legolas had managed to defeat it. And, as he had not then, he did not know how to help him now.

But he had faith. He had to have faith. He had learned from this entire ordeal that love was a stronger force than evil or hatred or lust. Legolas had shown him that. No matter how the Elf had suffered, no matter what he had been forced to believe, in the end, the Elf had not betrayed him. He had seen the conflict in those blue eyes as well, a great war between parts of a brutalized spirit. There had been madness and hatred, panic and terror, but there had also been some sort of understanding. Holis had been horribly arrogant and utterly wrong about the one thing that mattered the most: trust could not be broken. The Elf had been able to parse reality from falsehood, truth from nightmare. Holis had been blinded, his eyes glazed by a vision of supreme dominance, and he had not seen that there were mightier forces than his will. He envisioned himself as untouchable, infallible, and that which he created would never seek to defy him. He had crafted himself the perfect monster, a familiar face turned wild and murderous by agony and anger, lashing out against those who had harmed him. Yet the emperor had forgotten that he had harmed Legolas, too.

And he had died for it.

Still, nothing was so simple. There was so much he did not comprehend. Some things he knew he never would. Fate had blessed them in the end, and strange turns and unlikely happenings that he had deemed subtle or even unfortunate had combined in the final act to produce a favorable outcome. He looked back on these things now, standing at the end of a windy, misty road, and for once saw through the fog. Days ago he had found it within himself to question Faramir of the vision sent to Holis. The "dream" the man had had when wounded with the arrow had not been anything Aragorn had expected, but as he pondered the descriptions that had spilled from Holis' lips, he began to wonder at the power of the scene Faramir had concocted. The wounded man had then informed him of an astounding fact: he had not been the one to look through the  _palantír_  and send Holis his will.

Arwen had.

And Arwen, as well, had been the one to move Legolas into the Tower, knowing it would be the most difficult place for Holis to reach. She had decided not to bind their friend to the bed, risking further injury to him for the sake of a confrontation she feared inevitable. As the Citadel fell, she had explained, she had left Legolas free, knowing that should Holis find him, he would otherwise be completely unable to defend himself. His wife's intuition, as always, left him in awe. She had known what sort of vision to craft to drive Holis mad. She had known that Legolas, given the freedom and opportunity, would strike out against the emperor as violently as he had against Faramir and Aragorn. She had understood so much without ever revealing it. He had known it all along, but now he truly appreciated it. She was his greatest asset, his greatest strength. He could not fathom how such a thing had come to pass, but it had. Calm and collected, wise and powerful, Arwen had saved them all. She had, elegantly and enigmatically, turned Holis' ultimate weapon against him.

He had thought himself alone and forsaken, but in actuality, he never had been. Inside the Citadel, Arwen and Éowyn and all those trapped within it had stood and fought for their nation. Faramir had defied their conqueror. Irehadde had died protecting him. Amrothos had guided him every step of his arduous journey. And Legolas had saved his life.

Holis, however, had always been alone. Such was his weakness. A god could not afford to have allies.

As Aragorn did not understand much of the  _thral-gûl_ , neither could he claim to comprehend the man who had nearly destroyed everything he held dear. The memory of the entire event, from when he had learned of the attack at Cair Andros months ago to this very moment, seemed a hazy nightmare. He knew he had done much thinking and brooding, but he could not make sense of it now. The conclusions he had drawn before felt wrong, misguided and inadequate, though he supposed many of them had been true. They were simply not enough to fill the growing sense of emptiness where his friend's warmth had once resided.

He heard the door open, and he released Legolas' hand as he turned to see who was entering. Then he stood abruptly. "Faramir, you should not be out of bed," he scolded gently, taking a few long strides to approach the steward, surprised to see his friend walking.

For his own part, Faramir merely smiled weakly. In the week since he had been rescued, he had improved considerably. The healing skills of Elladan and Elrohir had done much to treat his many wounds. Still, recovery was a slow process, and Faramir had spent the entirety of the last days confined to his bed, battling a meager fever, chills, and residual weakness. Most of his injuries were healing, though he was still hindered by pain and stiffness. The steward watched him with dull gray eyes that were struggling to regain their vigor. "You must forgive me, my friend," he said softly as Aragorn drew his arm into his own to steady him. "As much as I love my wife, her…  _attention_  has become rather smothering of late."

Aragorn grinned to such a statement for its truth. Éowyn had scarcely left her husband's side while he remained unconscious, grasping his hand, saying nothing but exuding her absolute devotion with her unwavering vigil. When Faramir had awoken some five or six days ago, her silent care had exploded into a flurry of activity that reminded them both of, well…  _mothering_. It was a sweet sight to see Éowyn spoon-feeding Faramir broth and admonishing him sternly when he refused to eat another bite. Or when she had helped him bathe and tend to his long facial whiskers. Or when she had begun finishing his sentences for him with the exact opposite of what he wished to say. Truthfully, Aragorn could hardly blame his friend for wishing to escape. Éowyn was, as they all were, struggling to live past this nightmare. After nearly losing her husband, her grip upon him had become tight and protective. The White Lady, seemingly cold and composed at times, was alight with love and joy.

Yet she had not come to see Legolas. She was now the only one of them who had not.

Faramir sighed, tearing Aragorn from his thoughts. He looked to his friend's face. He was still quite pale, his eyes ringed in darkness, the hints of bruises and cuts still marking his skin. A sickly tinge clung to him. "I had been told this," the steward said softly, and Aragorn followed his gaze to the bed. Grief welled up inside him. "But I did not believe. I thought… I had faith still. It was a silly thing, really, but I imagined if I only came to see for myself that it would all prove to be wrong…" Emotion crept into the steward's voice, coarsening it. There were tears in his eyes as he looked to Aragorn. "Nothing is ever so simple, is it?"

The manner in which he spoke those words reminded the king of a little boy seeking an older brother's comfort, questioning something he feared to be true for the sake of having another assure him it was not. Aragorn did not know what to say, feeling wretched and guilty, but his helplessness seemed utterly repulsive to his aching heart. He drew Faramir into his embrace for a moment, holding the other man tightly to provide some semblance of strength. The man leaned tiredly into him; obviously traversing the distance between his own room and Legolas' quarters had greatly fatigued him. But more than this they supported each other. Aragorn held Faramir, the scent of athelas and other medicines clinging to his friend still, as the steward struggled to control his breathing. When the other pulled away, he grinned weakly and wiped at the wetness escaping his eyes. "Too many tears have been shed already," he commented, but beneath his attempt at jocundity the bitterness lingered at how many more yet might be spilled.

Aragorn rubbed his friend's arms, trying to return some warmth to the steward's sick form. "Here, sit," he said, leading the son of Denethor into the room. He closed the door softly behind them and then gestured to his recently vacated chair.

Faramir winced, though whether his discomfort was due to pain or some other sense of impropriety Aragorn did not know. "I did not mean to intrude," he declared softly.

"It is no intrusion," Aragorn clarified with a tentative smile. "I would appreciate the company."

But Faramir proved to be a rather poor distraction. With a grimace, the steward was gingerly settled into the chair by the king. Aragorn then procured a blanket from a pile of fresh, clean linens and unfolded it. He draped the quilt over Faramir and then sunk into another chair. Neither man spoke. The fire cackled and cracked, content to merely burn and chatter and fill the room with light and heat. They did not feel so warm or encouraged. Aragorn found himself watching Faramir, observing the ill man staring at Legolas with a mixture of tense emotion twisting his expression. Aragorn could not honestly say what this moment held for Faramir, whether or not it could bring the steward a semblance of peace, closure, or absolution, whether or not he could simply come to terms. It was easy to forget with everything that had happened that Legolas had almost killed him. He had almost murdered them both.

Finally Faramir spoke, filling the vacuous silence with a soft comment. "He seems at peace." Though Aragorn knew they were not intended as such, the words rang of defeat, of inevitability. It was the sort of thing one might say over a departed soul. Faramir did not appear to notice the tension rolling over his king. "I know, now more than ever, that things are rarely as they appear. But he looks… he looks as though he is gone."

"His body lives still," Aragorn countered, his voice a murmur, a shade of strength. He did not say more because he knew nothing more. He saw Legolas lying before him, completely still, his face expressionless and his hands resting weightlessly on the bed. His pale face was so absolutely blank, his eyes closed and only his lips parted with breath. Yes, his body still survived. Aragorn felt that if he could concentrate on that he could have hope.

But it was not so easy.

"I…" The king's voice faded as tears inadvertently filled his eyes. He took Legolas' hand once more between his own, desperate to feel the familiar strength of his friend's fingers. It had been so long since he had known it that he had forgotten what it felt like. He had forgotten the sound of Legolas' voice in laughter. He could not remember what it was to stand next to the power of an immortal and know that things beyond a dark moment were bright and everlasting. "I am afraid, Faramir." The steward said nothing, his shaking hands drawing the quilt tighter around his form. Aragorn looked up from the weak, pale hand in his. "What if we were wrong?" he questioned softly.

"Wrong?"

The king shook his head. "About the  _thral-gûl_. About all of this. I believed then that Legolas' spirit was imprisoned, but if that was so, why does he now languish?" He sighed, battling a sob. "I thought that when Holis was defeated this would end. I thought that his death would restore Legolas' life. I… I do not even know why this made sense to me."

Faramir did not respond immediately, as if he was trying to understand himself why they had held to this faith. "Holis wrought the dark magic," he commented, "and the illusion that trapped Legolas' spirit. It was only reasonable to assume without his will neither would have any potency."

"Reasonable?" Aragorn repeated incredulously. Faramir looked crestfallen at the anger and frustration in the king's voice. "There is no reason in  _any_  of this! He bears no fever, no wounds to cause such a state! The poison is long gone from his body! The one who fabricated the illusions that held his mind captive is dead! I have twisted this enigma over and over again in my head, but I can discern no answers."

Faramir paused before speaking, though whether in thought or apprehension Aragorn could not say. "Elrond's sons… what do they think?"

Aragorn released a slow breath, feeling his anger deflate in weariness and woe. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "They have ridden north with the Dúnedain to Imladris. They believe their father has left behind some books, ancient tomes written of forbidden magicks that might yield answers. Arwen shares in their optimism, but I… I am not certain." He gritted his teeth slightly, a barrage of unwanted memories and emotions pushing at his attention. "Holis twisted and manipulated the truth so often that I no longer know what occurred. All of this, the  _thral-gûl_ , the illusions put upon Legolas, the violence and torture… I no longer know what was a lie and what was the truth. I hate this doubt that now courses through me. I do not know what to do, Faramir. I am a healer, and as such I believe every ailment can be cured. As such, I keep close to my heart that faith. But I am so tired, Faramir, and so afraid. I do not know anything."

The words had rushed from his mouth, desperate to be spilled. Truthfully, since they had returned Legolas to the peace of his room many days ago, since the king had come whenever a moment could be spared to sit with the Elf and attempt to coax him back to health, this was the first instance he had admitted this fear. The fact of it all was they simply did  _not_  understand. The only evidence offered them had been Holis' lies and Legolas' maniacal, split actions. Their own desperate minds had attempted to fill in the gaps with apparent truths and deductions. A part of Aragorn sincerely hoped that his doubts and misgivings now were more a product of anxiety than actual truth, that he merely worried when he had been right all along. However, that worry was so strong that he could not cast it aside and focus on what he knew, or what he thought he knew, to be true.

"I saw him, Faramir," he said softly, his stinging eyes settling on Legolas' face. The steward was silent and still, his eyes dark with his own emotions and musings. "When the world had turned dark and cold, he was there. It was not some manifestation of the monster. It was Legolas. Perhaps he killed Holis because Holis brutalized him, but Holis' illusions gave him the same cause to kill me and he did not. And when he defeated the darkness inside him, I saw  _him_ , Faramir. It was all of him. He was reaching for me, not with his hands, but with his eyes and heart. He knew me for who I was, not who Holis had shown me to be. And he needed my help. He was begging me with every bit of his spirit to save him, to end his dream. It was with love and hope he dropped that sword." Aragorn shook his head bitterly, blinking back his tears. "I… My words fail me. Forgive me, for I ramble. I do not know how to explain this."

Faramir drew a slow breath, his gaze as well centered upon Legolas' unmoving form. "Nay, my Lord, I do understand, for I have seen this as well. So many long days ago, upon that balcony… For the briefest moment the shadows receded, and he knew my name." The steward turned his eyes to his king. "I do not know the strength of the foul craft put upon him, but it was never strong enough to completely force him down. There are layers to every soul. I think some part of Legolas was never trapped at all."

Aragorn latched hungrily onto this bit of hope. "How can you be sure?" he meekly asked, his wistful tone conveying his need for affirmation.

"I cannot be," Faramir sorrowfully admitted, "but I have faith. I have faith in his strength and love and courage. It was that part of him that recognized me upon that balcony and that part of him that would have rather taken his own life than be used against us further. It was that part of him that dropped that sword. I did not know, but I believed. It was this faith that gave me the power to defy." The man's face darkened, and Aragorn was reminded of what he had seen in the  _palantír_. Holis towering over Faramir's beaten frame. Demanding that the man divulge Legolas' location. Taunting him with Legolas' madness, his transformation from peaceful Elf to violent killer. And Faramir's resolved response.  _"He is my friend, and I love him."_

Faramir shook his head. "There was great war inside him. We both saw it steal his rest and torment him. I have to believe there was a part of him that was always fighting, that was always resisting. Only in the end was it able to finally win the battle."

This thought was at once soothing and dismaying, "Where now has it gone?" Aragorn whispered, holding Legolas' hand tighter in his own.

Faramir said nothing for a long time. Demons danced in his eyes as the fire reflected a blaze of hurt and anger in them. He shifted slightly in discomfort. "He is lost to us, Aragorn. I  _feel_  it more than I see it. There are stronger things, heavier things, than hope in this world. Perhaps the illusion is gone from his mind, but somehow I fear he may not wish to forget it, to leave it. There is comfort in oblivion, comfort that we and this world cannot offer him."

"Legolas is no coward," Aragorn declared, aghast with the thought. What disgusted him even more, though, was the growing sense of belief within him. Faramir's argument was convincing, bolstered by logic and the still, lifeless body before them.

"No, but there are limits to even the greatest courage," Faramir softly declared. The man winced, his face twisted in a grimace of memory and hurt. "I… know what it was like, Aragorn. Though my experience was but a taste compared to his, I understand his suffering. He might not want to face it. There are mechanisms of defense, even in Elves, that protect the mind from too much misery and memory. He may not have consciously wished it; he may have never been given the chance to fight the decision. Self-preservation is strong, the one constant in all behaviors."

Aragorn did not want to hear anymore. It simply hurt too much. It bothered him to believe that Legolas would rather hide in an illusion than face the world around him. Surely the Elf knew that he was not alone! Surely he realized that there might have been pain and misery awaiting him, but there was love and joy as well! Surely he knew these things!

 _When taken against their will, the Eldar fade._  The notion was cold and vicious. Legolas had been taken, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. There was likely naught left of his will besides an overwhelming, subconscious effort to spare his heart, mind, and body any more turmoil. Grief stole Aragorn's breath for a moment and made his head ache with these swirling thoughts.

And thus the moment came to the same question: who were they to deny Legolas the peace he needed? Who were they to force him to live in a world that had tortured him, a world that no longer opened its embraces to him? As much as Aragorn wished to deny, he had been doing just that for so long, and he had never realized it.  _"The sea calls to him like a mother does her son to her warm bosom, and yet he lingers in a world turned cold and quiet to him, fettered by a misguided and uniquely naïve sense of duty to you."_

A tear escaped the corner of his eye to roll languidly down his cheek.  _I never meant for any of this to happen._

"But perhaps you are right," Faramir suddenly and quietly declared. The steward did not meet his gaze, but Aragorn could see wetness glisten on his cheeks. Perhaps he had come to the same conclusions. Perhaps he suffered a deeper sense of misery, torn between the anger that Legolas' state afforded him an easy escape and despair that their friend was gone from them. The man took Legolas' other hand in own. "Perhaps there is a cure for every ailment. Time heals all ills."

They did not speak again. The thought was pathetic consolation, and they both knew it.

* * *

To climb from the very depths of defeat was no simple task, but, two weeks after the siege, Minas Tirith was beginning to reclaim its peace. There were many things supporting it. First, from Rohan hundreds of people had come, bearing food, clothing, and other supplies to aid Gondor's weary, war-ridden people. Éomer had offered everything within his means. In Edoras, few remained behind, only those unable to travel or those delegated to the Golden Hall's defense. The people of Riddermark had not forgotten that King Elessar had nearly laid down his life for their sake at Helm's Deep during the War of the Ring, or that the Elves, including Legolas, had sacrificed much to ensure their victory. Thus they marched in a long line from Rohan, offering their goods, services, and hearts to Minas Tirith's restoration. With them came many Dwarves of the Glittering Caves. At their lord's summons, they as well journeyed to the White City. Their capable hands and steady spirits would be needed to rebuild.

Also, the cold press of winter had relented. The Winter Festival (which, of course, would never be canceled when it stood to unite Gondor's folk) was fast approaching, but the air had warmed with a stream of salty wind from the south. Still the snow remained, but no more fell to hinder their efforts at cleaning and reconstructing their city. The skies were clear and bright, the blue dome overhead dotted with a few wisps and puffs of benign clouds, and rarely was the warmth of the sun obscured. The fair weather heartened the workers, lifting the shadows of depression. Though their task was monumental, the sun seemed to smile upon them.

Last, but certainly the grandest fact of them all, was the renewed hope of its people. Minas Tirith was alive again, buzzing with activity. Finally they were free, and the realization was nearly tangible, filling the air with a sort of relieved excitement. Life would continue, it seemed, for nothing could hold it still. Citizens emerged from their homes with hammers and bold hearts, with cloth and compassion, with food and faith. The city banded together now, offering help to each other. Many had been lost, but the spirits of the dead were quiet observers that brandished peace rather than angry ghosts striking with despair. The streets, strewn still with damage and debris, were slowly being cleared again for commerce and chatter. It was a wonderful sight.

Aragorn drew a deep breath and then released it, watching the stream of vapor flee from his nose and dissipate before his eyes. He stood in Minas Tirith's glorious courtyard, observing as the workers and Dwarves hefted another massive stone to replace those of the wall that had been damaged by the siege. Ropes and makeshift platforms were everywhere, and atop them men hummed with conversation and rejuvenated strength as they worked. Down below, soldiers were clearing the last of a few burned pieces of wreckage from the courtyard's white stones. And outside, he could hear Éomer shouting. The Riders of Rohan were working to remove the massive hulk of the dead oliphaunts from outside the Gateway. Long ropes and harnesses connected the horses to the gigantic bodies, and together the men urged their steeds into pull. It was slow and tedious work to drag them across the Pelennor, but they could not be burned so close to the city.

"Careful with that one, lads!" Gimli bellowed from beside him, his eyes directed upward to the large block of stone the men were steadying. Aragorn turned his gaze to watch the workers cautiously lower the piece into its place. It was the last of the new blocks to be fitted to the Gateway, and when it fell into its spot with a loud thud, the parapet erupted with a hearty cheer. Gimli smiled. "A fine job! Truly!"

Aragorn smiled, thrilled to see the city's massive wall again whole. "I must say I am impressed," he commented to his comrade, raising his hand to block the sun from his eyes as he watched the men atop the platforms congratulate each other on their accomplishment. "It took far longer to repair the damage done in the Battle of Pelennor Fields. You truly are a skilled craftsman."

Gimli was touched by the praise, but, as was his wont, he tried vehemently to hide it. "The Gateway was in a far worse condition then, Aragorn," he said, dismissing the statement. "But the stone is good, and the seals are tight. It will not fail you again."

It felt good to hear such a conviction. He dropped his hand to clasp his friend's shoulder. "I do not doubt it."

They were silent for a moment, watching the construction effort about them. The men were now beginning to work upon the parapet, applying mortar and new wood where needed. The flags of Gondor flapped in the gentle breeze, shining a sleek black and silver in the daylight. The sound of talking, of hammers striking, of feet moving in work, filled the quiet. Then Gimli grunted. "Has there been any word?" he asked softly.

He had not been specific, but Aragorn knew the topic to which he referred. He sighed. "None yet," he answered, "but there will not be for some time. Elladan assured me he would inform me immediately regardless of what they found." Gimli grunted, clearly unsatisfied. Aragorn looked down toward his friend for a moment, similarly worried and angered. "Even Elves cannot fly, Gimli."

But the weak jest was nothing more than that, and the conversation died between them. Though the day was bright and warm, the air had suddenly grown chilly as the sun moved behind the clouds. The king shivered slightly, shrugging deeper into his cloak. Between Gimli and himself, Legolas had rarely been alone these last days. They were always with him, together or apart, watching their friend as he lay comatose and unresponsive. Long hours into the night they had kept their vigil to no avail. Despite their demands, their coaxes, their tears, Legolas remained lost to them, and hope was beginning to dwindle, although neither of them was willing to admit it. What a cruel fate this was! To face restoration, warm and wonderful, and yet linger with someone denied it. It seemed so terribly unfair.

"My Lord Aragorn?" The king turned at the call, dropping arms he had subconsciously folded across his chest and looked behind him. A long line of men was approaching from the higher levels. Most were soldiers of Gondor, their silver armor shining proudly in the sun as they escorted the prisoners to the Gateway. A lieutenant stood at attention, and with him was a man he did not recognize. He seemed a plain sort, comely, his face long and deceptively youthful. Thin eyebrows and high cheekbones granted him a delicate appearance. His eyes were light in the sun, but Aragorn could see they were truly of a darker hue. Dark hair framed his countenance, turning pale skin whiter still. "This is the man who requested your audience."

The stranger smiled and bowed slightly. "It is an honor, my Lord," he said quietly, confidently, "and a pleasure now that the bars between us are gone."

Aragorn recognized the voice instantly. This was the prisoner who had alerted him of Holis' ploy. This was the man who had reinforced his confidence with the fact of the Haradrim's false army. In a way, this informer had made everything possible, and though their plan had not worked so smoothly as they had intended, without it the war would have ended quite poorly. The king smiled affably and bowed his head slightly. "I am pleased to finally see you. I trust you are pleased with the arrangements?"

The "amnesty" this prisoner had expected arrived upon Aragorn's desk some days ago in the form of a contract delivered by a dungeon guard. In return for the aid the man had offered, he had requested a simple thing: freedom. The written appeal had politely asked that all of the captured Haradrim be released and allowed to return to Harad. This prisoner, as articulate with written words as he was with spoken, gave no concrete argument as to why Aragorn should agree to these terms. After all, these men were war criminals. But, after reading the short letter over and over again, Aragorn had come to realize the reasons were implicit. Enough men had died. Enough blood had been spilled for the sake of Holis' perverted ambitions. He remembered the disorder he had witnessed during the siege, the dissension among Holis' troops. He could not honestly say they were all villains, or that they had willingly served in this war. He could not blindly hate them, though the simple answer was entirely too tempting. Ignorance bred violence, and he did not know enough of their culture to condemn them.

More than this, though, the thought of killing one more person mollified him. Vengeance was no longer the answer. He would have no more blood upon his hands. He would have no more violence. He would have no more of it.

The man smiled warmly, nodding. "Of course," he said. "You are quite kind."

Inexplicably the comment did not sit well with Aragorn, but he did not let that bother him. He had decided to send forth a band of soldiers to escort the prisoners south, to the border of Haradwaith. There they would be permitted what supplies Aragorn thought adequate for their journey and set free, warned never to return to Gondor on pain of death. Perhaps such a punishment was too lenient, but the king could not help but imagine that, deep in Haradwaith, another city like Minas Tirith perhaps floundered, deprived of its men and mettle. He imagined women and children suffering. The thought made him angry. "Do not come back," he cautioned finally, narrowing his eyes as he watched the line of prisoners leave the city.

The man's smile wavered a moment, and he bowed. "I do not intend to," he answered. He released a short breath and shifted his gaze beyond the opened Gateway, staring into the snowy Pelennor beyond. "A new age is upon us, my Lord. I do not know what it will bring, but I pray for peace for both our nations."

"An admirable aspiration," Aragorn commented, though for some reason he doubted its veracity.

"A choice," the man corrected gently, "and a measure of ambition. A dream, if you will. Not all are the sport of a wanton dictator. Not all are birthed from a womb of lies. I trust you appreciate this."

Gimli stiffened. Aragorn lifted his chin, shaking his head slightly. "You must forgive me, but I afford little trust to the Haradrim."

"Justly, my Lord. You have no cause to believe me, and blind faith is a damning weakness. Yet betrayal is bred of grander things. Anonymity is a shield, after all." Aragorn did not understand, a needle of warning pricking his heart. Almost as if the man sensed his sudden suspicion, he flashed a disarming smile. "I digress, my Lord. This is most assuredly neither the time nor the place to discuss the merits of alliance with you." He bowed. "With your permission."

Aragorn nodded solemnly. "Go in peace," he managed. The man nodded before rejoining the line of prisoners. The Dwarf and the man stood still, watching as the procession left the White City. The Haradrim were silent, nameless faces blurring together in a nondescript parade of despair, as they walked away. Atop horses, guards flanked them, their keen eyes watching their charges closely. They made no effort to hide their disdain. The work in the courtyard paused as the Haradrim departed, all attention unabashedly offered the defeated force. Outside, the Rohirrim parted, forming two long lines of horses. Angry glares were thrown at the enemies, but they did not seem to care. Aragorn supposed this mindset was fitting. What more, after all, did they have to lose?

Holis had already stolen whatever dignity they had had.

"King Elessar," said the first lieutenant, drawing Aragorn's wayward attention once more. Aragorn turned to face the man. The soldier seemed a bit wary, though his jaw was clenched with obvious displeasure. "I am sorry to disturb you again, sir, but there is another matter to which you must attend."

 _Another matter…_  he mused tiredly and darkly.  _There is always another matter._  Still, he was surprised to see what this particular issue entailed. Shortly thereafter, his shock melted into anger.

Between two soldiers Velathir morosely approached him. His head was bowed, limp, dark hair covering his slender, slumped shoulders. He did not look at Aragorn, his eyes glazed and lowered. He seemed small and frail, and the ranger did not doubt that many hours spent in the darkness had pressed heavily upon him. "We had just assumed, sire, that you would wish to contend with this now."

Aragorn glanced down towards Gimli, but the Dwarf only glowered hatefully at Velathir. The king released a long breath. He had forgotten this Elf in the blur of activity since the siege. Now, as he stood there watching the defeated, pale form, the horrid sting of betrayal ravaged him anew. He did not speak for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. Gimli broke the silence with an angry snarl that spoke of the depths of his rage and love for Legolas. "You spineless beast. Do you now seek absolution? Well, it is not yours to have!"

Aragorn released a slow breath, struggling to quell the raging storm of emotions within him. "Nor is it mine to give," he declared quietly. He stared at the Elf, willing that the creature would raise his head and met his gaze, but Velathir did naught but stand very still and look pointedly at the snowy ground. Despite all this aide had made possible, despite the wrongs he had done and the selfish wishes he had blindly followed, Aragorn could not help but pity him. Truly he was nothing more than a pawn, an instrument, and in some respects, he had been as used and deceived as any. The hate and fury that had nearly driven him in killing the Elf so many weeks ago was now lost in an apathetic, weary haze. "I can neither free you nor punish you, Velathir. As much as what you did…  _disgusts_  and enrages me, you are not mine to command. You broke no laws of Gondor. Therefore, I have no jurisdiction. Lord Legolas will see to your penance when he is well."

At this Velathir raised his head. He, as well as everyone else, knew of Legolas' state. But he said nothing to Aragorn's decision, clenching his jaw and accepting his fate. It was the noblest act Aragorn had seen him commit. "Until that time, you are released into the custody of your kin. They will determine what is to be done with you." He turned to the soldiers. "Return him to the prison. I will speak with Lord Valandil on the matter later and inform him of the arrangements."

The two men came to attention. "Aye, sir!" they chorused. Then they led the despondent Elf from the king. Aragorn watched as they disappeared into the mess of people in the courtyard and streets beyond. The lieutenant bowed and followed them. Left alone, static in the bustle, the man and the Dwarf stood, each observing the Elf that had betrayed another of his kind with anger and grief, each wondering at the foul craft that turned the Firstborn against each other.  _Holis only took advantage of a weakness already present, of cracks in the foundation in their colony._  Aragorn's heart ached.  _The sea._ Memories came unbidden. Legolas' eyes when they sailed upon the Corsair's ships to Minas Tirith years ago, their blue depths swallowed but not by the fear of imminent battle. The Elf's soft whispers at Aragorn's concerned prompt.  _"I hear it. I see it. It is upon me now. I should not have come by this road! Ai, the Lady was right…"_  Holis' hateful words.  _"He suffers for your friendship, for this pathetic love of brotherhood you hold so dear."_  Velathir's desperate explanation.  _"They said no harm would come to him, and that, in the end, if I aided, he would despise this hateful world and finally succumb to the sea-longing. Without him, the colony would fall apart! My kin would finally see reason to leave, and there would be peace…"_

That which united the Eldar to a common path, to a common end, to a common purpose had divided them terribly. The sea was not meant to put torture upon them.  _Have I always been so blind, so selfish?_

"You should not have been so lenient with him," Gimli muttered. The stout warrior shook his head. His dark eyes were narrowed, his face set into a stern expression. "He is a traitor and deserves no less than the noose."

"Perhaps," Aragorn ventured, looking down at his friend. "But I will not overstep my bounds. Legolas is not my vassal. He is my ally. I have no claim to his people."

Gimli did not immediately answer. He seemed to contemplate Aragorn's words for the following moments. When he emerged from his thoughts, he did not seem entirely satisfied. "Legality oft proves a crutch," he commented quietly, "and time lessens conviction. I have no wish to see him pardoned by technicality."

To that Aragorn said nothing. He felt dampened and somewhat affronted. He did not appreciate Gimli's comments because, partly, he knew them to be right. Though it was not his place to punish Velathir, it seemed the proper thing to do. The Elf deserved severe treatment for his betrayal, and, by deferring such responsibility to Legolas, he felt somewhat cowardly. But, again, he remembered the price paid for vengeance, and he dissuaded his angry heart from these thoughts. He had done the right thing.

The sun peeked out from behind the clouds again, and he felt better. The warm rays blasted back the chill and the shadows. He dropped his hand to Gimli's shoulder, the separation created by their disagreement becoming unbearable. The Dwarf raised previously angry eyes, his glare turning to a regretful apology, one that Aragorn readily accepted. He reached up and clasped the king's hand.

"Aragorn! Gimli!" came a call from behind them. Aragorn heard the sound of horse hooves thudding upon the snowy ground, and he turned to see Éomer approach. The young king's cheeks were rosy from the cold, and his eyes were alight as he turned Firefoot. He dismounted his gray steed, his cloak swishing about him with the graceful action, and then turned to face his friends. A waiting officer took the reins of his mount. Éomer flashed a smile at them. "Come. You must see."

The man and the Dwarf shared a quick glance before following their enthused friend. Gimli limped slightly, bothered still by the wound he had received to his leg during the siege. Through the Gateway they walked, picking their way past workers, soldiers, and citizens. And once outside, they stopped.

The sun was striking the mountains just so, turning their lavender and cerulean peaks ablaze with ethereal color. The rays struck the gray clouds as they shot through to caress the land below, setting their puffy edges glowing a pretty, pearly hue. Before them Pelennor Fields stretched, its white expanses untouched from the newest snowfall some nights ago. Gone from it were the bodies, now dragged to the river for disposal. Gone was the shadow. It was peaceful again, unblemished by war or evil, blanketed in the sky's tender love. A promised new future delivered in a heavenly curtain of purity.

Aragorn looked over the scene and felt happiness, wonderful and strong, well up within him. Warmth rushed over his body, and he stared at the splendor made before him. For the first time, he believed the nightmare was over. For the first time, he asked for proof and was awarded with evidence. The scourge of Holis had been erased from their fair lands. It was beautiful, and he basked in it.

Gimli released a slow breath beside him. "This is a gift," he breathed, his eyes glazed as he beheld the serene sight. "A gift that we should struggle through such darkness to reach a magnificent light."

Tears blurred Aragorn's eyes, pride making his body ache for its power, and he smiled. Éomer laughed. "It is a good day to be alive!" he bellowed, overjoyed that this one task was done and the fields were again clean. He opened his arms as though to embrace the expanse of the plains. "It is a good day to be free!"

"Here, here!"

"Long live King Éomer! Long ride the Rohirrim!"

"Elessar! Elessar! Elessar!"

"The White Tree flourishes!"

"Hail to the Kings of the West!"

Aragorn turned around, stepping slowly further from the Gateway. The euphoric roar washed over him in a mighty wave, blasting away the remains of the darkness inside him. The sun struck the Tower of Ecthelion, lighting it like a shard of pearl and silver against the winter sky. The sun turned the White City into a dream, casting awesome illumination upon its pale buildings. Minas Tirith glowed with all the vitality and beauty of the kings and peoples of old.

"Hail to the Kings! Hail to the Kings!" The chant continued, emanating from what felt to be the very core of the city. The men atop the gate were vigorously cheering their king, the gratitude they harbored towards him for saving their nation evident upon their flushed faces and in their light voices. The Riders of Rohan, spread along the outer wall, saluted him, echoing the sentiments of those within the city with a loud ovation of their own. The standards of Gondor and Rohan shone in the daylight, as proud and powerful as they had been before any of this misery had come to them.

The cacophony of elation shook Aragorn, the force of the men's love a nearly tangible thing as it struck him. His eyes mindlessly roamed over those saluting him. His faith was restored, his confidence returned. He was king, but, more importantly, he was a good king. He would never doubt it again.

"Not bad for a few days' worth of work." Aragorn turned to the left to see Pippin emerging from the riders. The small Hobbits walked to him, obviously unperturbed by the cold, his bare feet crunching on the snow. He smiled sheepishly. "If I may say so, my Lord." He dropped to kneel before the ranger.

Through the blasting joy consuming him, Aragorn shook his head at the bowing Took. "Pippin, must I remind you again that you never need to bow be–"

"Now, Merry!"

The ranger, as fleet his mind, senses, and body were, could not possibly avoid the attack launched upon him. Merry suddenly appeared behind Aragorn, the small creature stepping quite stealthily from the protective line of riders. A wicked smile crossed his bright face as he cradled two hefty balls of snow, one in each gloved hand. These he tossed at Aragorn with alarming accuracy. The first struck the king's back. The second was fortunately (or unfortunately, for Aragorn) better aimed, and as the man ripped around, it caught him on his upper chest. The ball exploded, covering Aragorn's face with stinging, icy white. Alarmed, the king slipped and a second later landed rather unceremoniously on his back in the snow.

He laid there a moment, watching the clouds drift overhead, feeling the cold cover his face and escape down his neck to slip under the collar of his tunic. Then he heard laughing. Merry and Pippin were guffawing loudly, apparently quite amused at their victory. Gimli's deep baritone rumbled with chuckles; the Dwarf doubled over and clasped his knees as he fought for breath. Even Éomer and his men were laughing. Embarrassment rolled over Aragorn. Perhaps he ought to have simply righted himself be done with it. But his wounded pride allowed him no such easy defeat. The Hobbits could not go unchallenged or unpunished.

So he stayed perfectly still, his eyes slipping shut. All thoughts of propriety fled him. It was hardly becoming of a king to act like this, but he found he did not care. His heart reveled in this long awaited frivolity. His ruse depended upon his apparent ill health, so he tensed every muscle in his body to remain still. He even held his breath. He knew, once the others were done laughing at him, they would grow concerned and draw close.

"Aragorn?"

"Are you alright? We just wanted to have some fun. You seemed so despondent. With the Yule coming, we just tho–"

Vengeance was his.

With a mighty roar he sprung from his supposed stasis and grabbed both of the worried Hobbits. Down in the snow they went, wrestling, white flying everywhere as Aragorn pinned them and attempted to stuff wet, cold snow down their cloaks and tunics. "No! No!" But the last of Merry's cries escalated into a screaming guffaw as he succumbed to the king's superior strength. Gimli lasted but a moment until he was too pulled into the fray, Pippin dumping snow onto his mess of hair and beard after the Dwarf had fallen into a bank. The riders chuckled, enjoying the display. Éomer merely shook his head at his friends, smiling broadly, his arms crossing his chest. Such mirth was a welcoming balm, a true sign of recovery. It was warm and pleasant, true and loving, and Aragorn completely and willingly lost himself in it.

The sun washed away the last of the shadows as laughter spread across Pelennor Fields. Indeed it was a good day to be alive.


	42. Good Tidings

"Warmth and wine! It is a fine evening for it, Aragorn!"

But Aragorn hardly heard Gimli's words. His eyes were fixated, despite the flurry of activity about them, upon the empty chair a few spots down from his. The red fabric of the upholstery seemed bright and lulling, drawing his eyes into a sea of blood, and he willingly obliged its call. It was pressing, that idle seat, and once again he found he could not look away. The void where his friend typically resided seemed to draw everything into it, hungrily devouring eyes and hearts into its vacuum. It was powerful and entirely too distracting.

"Aragorn? Lad? Are you well?"

Somehow this served to pull him from his mindless stare. He blinked, shook his head as if to clear it, and glanced to the Dwarf, who was regarding him worriedly. "Yes," he commented quickly. "I apologize."

Gimli chuckled at the king, though the sound felt rather humorless. "As you have proclaimed yourself to be the time before this one  _and_  the time before that. Do not sulk so. You are proving poor company this night."

Aragorn sighed softly, shame coloring his cheeks. He felt Arwen's hand gently grasp his under the table, offering him a tender, compassionate squeeze. He looked to his wife gratefully. A calm smile came upon her lips, one that lighted her blue eyes beautifully. Silently she offered him her strength, understanding completely what so bothered him this night. Her gaze felt to be a warm and sympathizing balm as it enveloped him. He knew what she meant to say even if she did not have the strength to say it.  _"Do not let your heart be troubled. Legolas would wish no despair upon you."_

But it was so difficult. He wished now that he had bade the servants remove the prince's usually occupied chair from their dinner table. Those that had prepared the banquet hall had simply left it despite Legolas' comatose state and obvious inability to attend. Yet to order them to remove it felt wrong somehow. Legolas likely had no comprehension that this festival occurred without him, or that his friends now gathered and supped while he lingered in darkness. Somehow the Elf's ignorance of that fact made the pain even greater. Casting aside that empty chair seemed too final. It was fitting that Legolas' spirit remained, the ghost of his laughter and merriment strong upon them, to remind them all that this moment of celebration was wrought with a hefty price.

Aragorn looked ahead, pushing away these blackening thoughts. Gimli was right. This was no time for them. The grand hall was alive with music and merriment. A hum of chatter filled the air as guests ate and drank along the long tables that were finely decorated and adorned with copious amounts of food. From the vaulted ceiling hung the banners of Gondor, white and black and silver, tinged a warm and welcoming gold by the many candles setting the chamber aglow. The center of the hall had been set aside for entertainment, a massive square of polished, shining floor recently occupied with jesters and bards. Some time before all eyes had anxiously and joyfully watched their antics and all ears had listened to their songs. Now private conversation meshed into a gentle tone as those present, lords and commoners alike, joined each other in enjoying dinner.

Gondor's Winter Festival was a long-lasting tradition. Generally it was a grand affair, filling the entirety of a day with games, events, and good cheer. Along the streets of Minas Tirith people would gather, rejoicing in the coming of winter (though the season was typically far milder than it had become this year). Sages and story-tellers from across Gondor would come to the White City to both exchange information with their peers and entertain the citizens. On this day, there was no business, time devoted instead to relaxation and sharing in jollity. At sundown, the games and festivities ended, and as many as possible came to the Citadel for its massive dinner celebration. All the manor's halls were set to accommodate the flood of denizens. Invitation was not needed to attend the king's supper. It was an event open to all.

This year, the festival adopted a bigger meaning. It was perhaps not as extravagant as years before, but it was more wondrous for its reality. Minas Tirith was united in the glory of survival. There was not money or time enough to make this typically lavish and beautiful day all it usually was, but few cared to note its simplicity. A common relief connected every soul in the city, a pure aura of love and pride radiating from every man, woman, and child. They were alive to share this day, and it was one of both sorrow and joy. The morning hours, typically filled with play shows and events in Minas Tirith's courtyards, was instead reserved for a massive memorial at the Citadel. Those that had died, both soldiers and citizens, were honored by the king and his people. The names had been many, hundreds upon hundreds, but each had been read with solemn admiration. Those bodies that had been recovered had been painstakingly identified and returned to the families. Those that had been lost were mourned with memory. It had been a beautiful ceremony, peaceful and quiet, a truly restorative measure for the entire city. There was still much grief and pain, but together, those that had lived began to overcome the trauma put upon them.

Dark and light. Grief and joy. In the wake of every disaster, life again rose, and there was happiness to be found. Aragorn tried to convince himself of this as he gazed about the hall. He saw ladies blushing as they chatted, children laughing and playing, men intently listening to each other as they spoke and attempted to forget darker matters for just this one night. Yet everything remained, out of reach perhaps but looming over them. One night of celebration and camaraderie could not erase the past or change the future. There would still be work on the morrow. The city, though recovering, was still in shambles. One night would make no difference.

"Aragorn, stop this."

He thought he heard Legolas' voice. A bolt of excitement charged through him, his eyes focusing rapidly and shifting to the vacant seat from which they had mindlessly drifted. But the chair was as empty as it was a few minutes ago. The king released a slow breath, his expression falling into a depressed frown. Desperation breathed life into memories. This night, with this hall so full and vibrant, reminded him of his coronation after the War of the Ring. There as well he had been struck with a bout of melancholy, a sadness borne from a touch of nervousness and fear, and he had slipped away from the gaiety. Legolas had found him, knowing him far too well to allow him a private misery, and chastised him for his seclusion.  _"Aragorn, stop this. What happened is done, and not even a king of men can change the past. This is your destiny. Perhaps it feels to be a sudden role thrust upon you, but you knew it to be long in coming. All of us did."_

" _You do not understand. I… I look upon you, and I feel as though a great wall will grow between us. You are Elf-kind, promised to a place I cannot go. Everything has changed, Legolas. I do not want to lose what we have had. Our path splits now, each of us destined to a separate end, and I do not want to lose you."_

" _I will walk with you, Aragorn, until the end of your days."_

" _I do not wish to ask that of you. I know what has come to you. You must leave these shores."_

" _Yes, but only when my heart here is spent. You ask nothing of me. I choose to stay. As long as there is a place for me at your side, I will be there."_

"Aragorn?" The king shook himself from the memory. How quickly it had overcome him! How vivid were its scenes and sounds! How bright Legolas' eyes had been, how strong his soft voice had seemed, how powerful he had stood, framed by the moon's pale glamour… Unwavering. But Legolas was not there, neither at his side nor at the table, and ghost of his friend's promise raced from his eagerly grasping fingers. The king felt tears sting his eyes, and he cursed himself for his weakness, for his willingness to lose himself in recollection. The past was a cruel captor.

He looked to Gimli and saw that the Dwarf's face was hardened in annoyance. "Pay the man your attention," his stout companion hissed to him.

"What?"

Gimli cleared his throat and cocked his head slightly, gesturing down the table while lifting his wine goblet to his lips. Aragorn looked in the direction to which the Dwarf had alluded, feeling his cheeks burning again in shame. He saw Merry and Pippin, the latter chewing appreciatively on a bit of sweet bread, both with worried eyes intently watching him. Beside them sat Éomer, the young king of Rohan offering him a small twitch of his lips that might have been an encouraging smile. Imrahil's gray eyes were narrowed in caution and concern. Amrothos and Lothíriel were seated on his right, and both observed him with inquisitive, youthful interest. His advisers. Beregond, healed from his injuries. Elves and Dwarves. It seemed all eyes were upon him.

He cleared his throat, shame threatening to twist his face into a scowl. "My apologies," he said firmly, quite disgusted with both his terrible behavior and the number of times he had uttered such words that evening. The weight of the concern he felt radiating from his friends was too heavy upon his heart. As much as he had been looking forward to this celebration, he now wished to be anywhere but at that table. The excitement of Merry and Pippin had amplified the annual festival into something far greater. To them, this had been a Yule gathering as well; in the Shire, they used this occasion to mark the end of their year and herald the coming of another. It seemed appropriate, given all that had happened, to attribute such a transformation to this day as well. To leave the past behind and face a new future. He had been a fool to believe anything so simple to be possible. He had been a fool to even try. He was not ready. He feared he never would be.

Pain sliced through him. To let go of the war, to embrace this night and everything it promised… He was betraying Legolas again.

 _Focus!_  his mind snapped. Helplessly he looked towards the other end of the table, struggling to drag his attention to the present and banish the hurtful thoughts. He was not certain to whom he was supposed to be listening, and he clawed angrily at his disorganized memories in hopes of finding a clue. Apparently he had been completely distracted, for his search proved futile. He desperately glanced from face to face, praying that a sign be granted to him so that he might save a bit of his pride.

Faramir smiled. The gesture was easing and disarming, and the tension left Aragorn, releasing his stomach from the painful knots that had formed in his belly. The steward said, "Do not trouble yourself, my Lord." Faramir held his gaze, and the king knew his friend understood. In that quiet moment, everything was shared. This was the first time Faramir had been well enough to attend a public event since his ordeal. The steward still appeared a bit pale, and his proud stature was yet burdened by tenderness. His eyes remained dark as well, though the shadows were now fleeting. It was wonderful to again have him present at a supper. "It is no pressing matter."

A nervous, excited note had crawled into the steward's tone, one that was not missed by any assembled, and Aragorn grew curious. The sudden interest was warm and pushed away the bitterness sneaking about his spirit. "Well, let us have it, then," Éomer suddenly said, leaning forward to stare down the table at his brother. The young king grinned, a charming, roguish smirk upon his face. "You have hardly sat still this entire evening."

That comment was answered with a chorus of chuckles and a rush of color to Faramir's cheeks. The steward glanced at his wife once, his smile broadening. Éowyn sat beside him, dressed in a beautiful green gown, her hair pulled upward and set beneath a gold circlet. Her eyes were alit, and though she was far calmer than her husband, Aragorn could see in the blue depths an exhilarating elation. "I – well, I do not mean to make an occasion of this, but the timing seemed proper…" The steward's voice faded, his rambling ending. He took his wife's pale hand, grasping it firmly. He drew a deep breath and turned to table. Each person was silent, watching him with rapt attention. "Éowyn is with child."

At first, only silence followed Faramir's announcement. This was not a quiet laden with grief or fear or even alarm. It was a pause in the rush of all things to allow the pleasure of what was to come to embrace them fully. And when it did, smiles appeared upon faces and hearts beat in joy and conversation burst forth from lips. "That is wonderful news!" Gimli cried. "Wonderful!"

Merry and Pippin were on their feet. The young Took laughed as he pumped Faramir's hand vigorously, congratulating the man on his good fortune. Merry embraced Éowyn tightly, and the White Lady laughed and cried at once as she hugged her dear friend. Since their moments together on Pelennor Fields during the battle for Minas Tirith, they had become bonded, the woman and the Hobbit. It was an endearing relationship, one that Aragorn would never have anticipated.

Éomer was next to embrace Faramir, and he did so strongly. In the clamor of conversation and laughing, Aragorn could not hear what the two men said to each other, but both were smiling, clasping each other on the shoulders, and for the moment all hints of what they had endured were gone from their faces. Then the young king took his sister into his arms, enfolding her in a mighty embrace and kissing her hair tenderly. Absently Aragorn watched them, a hazy warmth covering him as he observed the joviality. The golden glow washed everything, and the world felt whole again. There was life beyond this moment and beyond the next. And that was a fact that no one could ever change.

Éowyn laughed at a joke, her long, pale fingers coming to wipe the wetness from her cheeks. Faramir wrapped an arm around her slender waist, pulling away from his uncle's hug to rejoin his wife. They all felt this, this gentle moment of purity, and deep inside hearts and spirits love and faith was restored.

Aragorn smiled, blinking through his own tears and grabbing his glass of wine as he stood. The chatter quieted as his friends, comrades, and subjects watched him. He lifted his goblet. "To what lies ahead," he declared. His voice trembled ever so lightly. "Though what has come before was black and dangerous. We stand now at the end of a dark road, fettered once by deceit and desolation. Yet out of every shadow there is light. We must never forget faith or forsake fellowship. Our future lies before us, ours to make, though we do so with hearts made wise by suffering and hands weathered with battle. Renewed are the days of the king, and they will be blessed. This we must see to. Destiny may be uncertain, but no longer will we be afraid. From darkness, we have found the sun, and it shines as brightly upon us as ever before!

"To what lies ahead!"

The dining hall echoed his sentiment. Glasses were clinked together, the men and women toasting their king's words. Aragorn tasted the wine, and for the first time that evening, it was sweet and warm upon his tongue.

* * *

The dinner proceeded marvelously. Faramir's good news rejuvenated the spirits of all, including Aragorn. His once dull senses flared to life. The scene before him was bright and vivid, stronger to him than any memory once prodding at his attention. He heard laughter and chatter, the music from the minstrels clear and beautiful to his ears. The food smelled and tasted wonderful, the meat tender and the vegetables savory. More than this, he  _felt_  again. He was happy, truly happy, and he knew it. He did not question the sensation for its veracity or rightfulness, succumbing instead to its charms and allowing himself this escape. He did not permit the shadows their sway or the memories their manipulations. He craved this freedom, so he cast aside all his doubts and fears and sorrows. For a while, at least, he could be free, and he imagined that Legolas would not fault him for that.

So he relished in his dinner, delighting in the simple pleasures of fine food and familiar spices tantalizing his palate. The wine complemented the flavors, tingling in his throat and belly and spreading lazy warmth over him. To him it seemed many years had passed since he had last enjoyed a leisurely dinner, and every bite, as simple and mundane as it was, was perfect.

His company anchored him in this world, as well. Before a suffocating pall had lingered over the table, the king's depression affecting the others far too easily. The shadow had clung to them, destroying the fledging hope for good cheer. Now, the hall was alive with jubilation and mirth. It filled the area, pushing against the stone of the walls, ceiling, and floor, pouring from the well-lit space to spill into the Citadel beyond. There was naught aside from the celebration.

The minstrels were beginning another round of light songs, the musicians bickering comically over what they should play before settling on a few winter waltzes. Faramir sat beside Aragorn, his eyes twinkling as he watched Merry dance with his wife across the polished floor to the quick tempo of the tune. The steward had collapsed in the vacated seat a few minutes ago, claiming to be too full to continue frolicking so energetically. Aragorn knew immediately that Faramir had only brandished such an excuse to cover his soreness; he was still not quite recovered enough to engage in such strenuous activity. But the others appeared to accept his explanation, leaving him at Aragorn's side to whirl about the dance floor and lose themselves in the mess of people celebrating this eve.

Aragorn tiredly watched the blur of pretty colors mesh into a whirling rainbow as the ladies moved before him, their gowns swishing with elegant steps. His mind was becoming quite lethargic, the swirl of hues entrancing him. He spotted Arwen dancing with Valandil, an Elf she knew from Rivendell, and he held her gaze for a moment. She offered a firm smile, one he received with a tentative grin of his own, before they turned away. His expression began to falter slightly when he lost sight of her, but he could not honestly say why. His emotions were beyond his control this evening. Weariness was beginning to take him, and he was eager to release himself to it. Somehow a silly thought had crept into his head, one fostered, he was certain, by the Hobbits' claim of the coming of the new year on the morrow. He foolishly believed that if he just let this evening pass him, if he just slept tonight free of worry and fear, the next day would come and everything would be right again.

Faramir did not speak, shifting slightly in his seat with a bit of a wince. Aragorn followed his line of sight to the dance floor. In the distant corner, he spotted a pale blue dress and a flowing red cape. The king narrowed his eyes. It was Éomer and Lothíriel, and the two appeared to be enjoying each other's company far more than the music of the dance. The horse lord stood a head taller than the young woman in his arms, looking down into her eyes with something of a nervous, boyish grin upon his face. He was speaking softly, and Lothíriel laughed. The two were hardly dancing at all, swaying almost to the quick beat of the waltz, embracing as though the world had faded around them. Aragorn smiled. Éomer brushed his fingers over Lothíriel's cheek and leaned closer to her to whisper something in her ear. The young woman was simply lovely, and moment between the two was endearing and heart-warming.

He heard a great laugh from his right, taking his attention. Gimli was guffawing, puffing quite merrily on his pipe with Pippin at his side. The two were ringed in smoke, hefty glasses of brew in their hands, most likely regaling some comic tales of times spent separated. Aragorn watched them for a moment, simply observing without thinking as Gimli leaned closer to Hobbit as if to share with him a secret. Pippin nodded conspiratorially, a great, foolish smile spread across his face. Then he laughed again, his face growing rosy as he slapped his thigh and leaned back in his chair.

There was the sound of children. He saw the young ones some distance down the hall, entertained by a juggler. The man sported a cape made of a rainbow, it seemed, for all the different and mismatched patches of cloth sewn together could resemble little else. He tossed brightly colored balls high into the air and made a show of nearly missing them as they descended to the squealed delight of the children. A few adults monitored the show as well. Aragorn lazily regarded the group a moment when a flash of red hair drew his attention.

The king sat forward quickly, surprise leaving his exhausted form tingling with sudden energy. He had only seen the child once or twice, but as she sat in the group huddled about the juggler, he recognized her immediately.

Faramir softly declared, "Fethra. I had nearly forgotten her."

Aragorn turned to look over his shoulder at his friend. Faramir held his gaze a moment, his eyes questioning and veiled in suspicion. The steward was slumped slightly in his seat, turned to relieve strain from his wounded side. He shook his head as though he had noticed the girl long ago but had decided to speak not of her. Aragorn looked back to the juggler and his audience, but no longer did he notice the soaring balls or the enchanted faces. He only saw the girl, the child whose love and innocence had been used against Legolas, who had carried the hateful pendant into their city. As he watched her mouth open in a gasp and then a squeal of excitement, he felt numb and uncertain. "She is only a child," he murmured, as if to convince himself that the thoughts emerging from the haze of drink and fatigue were merely products of an over-active sense of paranoia.

Faramir was silent for a moment. "A child, yes," he said softly. With a barely hidden grimace, he leaned closer to his friend and hushed his words. "But I cannot rightly say what part she might have willingly played in this nightmare. Surely a child has not within her the capacity to betray one who loves her. She is but an infant."

"But Legolas…" Aragorn could not speak, for he did not know what to say. He did not know what to think. He could not even determine how he felt. He swallowed a burning knot in his throat. "Legolas loved her."

Faramir sighed, troubled once more. "I have faith she could never brandish that against him. Perhaps she was as manipulated by Holis as any of us. After all, she bore that necklace for days at least. Perhaps he used it to bend her will. I must think this. There is some fundamental morality in this world, Aragorn. Holis would be so craven as to turn love against Legolas, but I cannot fathom a little girl delivering into the hands of a sadist the one who protected her. I cannot even imagine a little girl  _understanding_  that."

Aragorn's numbness was spreading, easing the pain he felt within him. This was, perhaps the cruelest betrayal of all, and given all the excess, all the torture and torment, it had become the more subtle. It had slipped away from them, seemingly inconsequential in this convoluted plot, but now it was sharp and foremost in his thoughts. Whether willing or not, this girl had destroyed Legolas. Such treachery was unparalleled.

Yet, despite the disgust and rage kindling within him, he could not help but wonder at a possibility. The words left his lips before he had even thought to venture the idea. "Do you suppose the presence of the girl might…  _help_  him somehow?" He said nothing further, at once hopeful and repulsed. He could not form an opinion on the subject. There were too many questions. Assuming the child was indeed as innocent as she appeared, how could they even begin to explain the situation to her in terms she could comprehend? Further, he remembered that Fethra had been told of Legolas' death, and he highly doubted she had been informed that the Elf breathed still. What sort of damage would a reversal of that belief do to a naïve mind? How could he expect her to understand something they themselves could barely begin to comprehend?

Still, he wondered if she might do some good. He pondered the prospect of this girl coaxing the Elf from his comatose prison. The child, maybe, could accomplish what they could not. He was beginning to fear that Legolas, if he were somewhat aware of his surroundings, would never respond to him. He was terrified the Elf would remember the horrible visions to which he had been subjected, and to Legolas, he would appear little more than another torturer. Fethra might remain a pure light to him, one to guide him from the darkness. To say the idea was not alluring would have been a horrible lie.

"No," Faramir suddenly declared. The steward looked to him, blinking as though to clear his eyes of tears. "I… I do not trust her enough." He gave no other reason, but that one was sufficient for Aragorn. The king could not help but agree. They would perhaps never know the extent of the child's involvement, but arguably she had been influenced by the evil that had nearly taken them all. Letting any part of that shadow, no matter how seemingly small, near Legolas again was absolutely revolting. Moreover, regardless of his worries, he had to believe for the sake of his heart and hope that Legolas would eventually find his way back to him on his own.

They did not talk further. The matter had dampened their cheer. Aragorn watched as the juggler set down his balls and began to entertain the group of children with a wintry fantasy ballad. Fethra looked up at Ioreth, who Aragorn suddenly noticed when a group of men previously obstructing his view shifted. The woman smiled lovingly, placing a hand on the girl's head. Something inside the king ached fiercely. He hated the girl, then, knowing the emotion was utter irrational but allowing himself to feel it all the same. He despised that she seemed well and pampered and otherwise unaware of Legolas' plight. He recalled the pride and love he had seen in Legolas' eyes when the Elf had beheld the child. Life was truly unfair.

"My King?" Imrahil's voice interrupted his bitter thoughts. The Prince of Dol Amroth stood to his left, smiling tentatively. His eyes were slightly veiled, wearied and worried, and his face seemed older as lines of concern collected about his taut lips and eyes. Apologetically, he declared, "It is time."

Aragorn stood suddenly, cursing his faulty memory. So many things, from menial supply matters to massive issues of architecture, cluttered his head that he lost track of the simplest things. Only that morning Imrahil had informed him of his intention to depart Minas Tirith. The prince had sought his permission some time before breakfast. Aragorn had been saddened, of course granting his faithful warrior's request, but reluctant to see him leave. As Imrahil had explained, his wife, through all of this war and chaos, was still ill and she required his attention. Additionally, the family was still grieving the loss of Ercirion. The soldiers of Dol Amroth were tired. The principality had its wounds, as well, and it needed its lord. Aragorn had attempted to insist they leave the following morning, but Imrahil had not wanted to trouble him with an elaborate departure. There was simply too much to do, and this was hardly a permanent parting.

Gratitude welled up inside of Aragorn, combating his grief. Imrahil had been a silent and steadfast source of strength during the war. Aragorn doubted he would be able to find words enough to express his thankfulness. The two men held each other's gazes for a moment, and Imrahil bowed slightly. "Please send word to Dol Amroth should Legolas awaken," he requested softly, lifting his eyes to regard his king. "I would much like to know."

Aragorn nodded sadly. "Of course." He grasped the man's shoulder. "I wish you fair travels, my friend. Once again you have proved the mettle and might of your blood to the line of kings. You are indispensable to Gondor. I thank you for all you have done."

Imrahil smiled genuinely, and though he was still burdened by much, the weight seemed lighter. "If Minas Tirith requires any sort of aid, send forth riders and your request will be filled immediately and to the best of our abilities." He also firmly laid his hand upon Aragorn's arm, squeezing slightly. His following words mirrored those a friend might speak to a friend, rather than a lord to his king. "Stand tall. This will yet end well. I know it."

To that Aragorn nodded, heartened by the prince's firm beliefs. Imrahil stepped to the side to address Faramir. Behind him, Amrothos approached. Aragorn's heart shook slightly at seeing the boy, but the young man knelt before the king could properly gauge the emotions in his eyes. "Do not bow before me, Amrothos," he said quietly. "You have no cause."

The lad looked up, his eyes twinkling. Gone now was the meek and timid boy he had once known. Youth and innocence still brought light to his visage, but he was now a man, hardened by war and strengthened through experience. More than this, though, Amrothos had seen a part of the king few rarely had. He had witnessed Aragorn at his most desperate and desolate, in his darkest hour. That had bonded them. Aragorn was ashamed to have acted as he had, but he was not embarrassed in front of the lad. He knew the young man thought no less of him. "You are my King, sir," he said. "That is all the cause I need."

Aragorn smiled fondly, nodding to the boy, respecting his formality and bidding him to rise. "You are a brave warrior and a strong adviser. You have done Gondor a great service. I doubt this war would have been won without your courage and fortitude."

Amrothos blushed and smiled. "Thank you, sire."

"Take your rest. You and yours will always be welcomed in my house." The young man flushed even brighter with this comment, as it was the sort of thing he expected to be directed towards his father. But it had not been Imrahil to save Aragorn's life or bravely accompany him on his crazed quest to the Houses of the Dead. It had not been Imrahil who had fought even when the king himself had accepted defeat. And it had not been Imrahil who had valiantly donned the king's garb to lure the Haradrim into their downfall. Amrothos had done all these things, and the lad had every right to be proud.

Aragorn bowed his head toward the young man. Then Amrothos stepped back behind his father, who was beaming quite brightly with pride. Imrahil nodded to Faramir, smiling. "If I may, I take my leave, my Lords." Both men nodded and then watched as the two lords of Dol Amroth bid farewell to the ladies of the table and Gimli before making their way to the grand entrance of the hall. Lothíriel awaited them, accepting a bow from Éomer and a kiss upon her hand. Imrahil spoke briefly with the young king, his comments eliciting a laugh from the horse lord. Aragorn watched the exchange, amused by Éomer's obvious attraction to the prince's pretty daughter. Then, with a final bow, Imrahil and his children left the great hall.  _I wish you well,_  thought the king,  _and may we never meet again under such dark circumstances._

There was a chuckle beside him, and the smell of pipe weed, pungent and familiar, claimed him as a puff of smoke rose to his face. Gimli pulled the stalk of his pipe from between his teeth. "Come on, Aragorn, and have a drink with us! These lads have some fine stories to tell of the Shire! Their antics prove quite amusing. Imagine our stalwart Samwise Gamgee as mayor of Hobbiton…"

"And gardener!" Pippin corrected, offering his cousin a flagon of beer as a flush-faced Merry came to plop down into the chair beside him.

"But of course! Mayor  _and_  gardener! A creature of many talents, brave Sam."

"Who sends his regards, by the way," Merry managed after taking quite the gulp of his brew. "He would have gladly accompanied us himself when the summons reached the Shire, but he couldn't just leave behind his responsibilities. He's got young ones, now, too…"

"King Elessar?" This voice did not belong to his friends. Aragorn turned to find a messenger behind him. The man was older then he, balding and tall, but his eyes were soft with friendliness. "I am sorry to disturb you, my Lord, but something has arisen which requires your immediate attention."

Aragorn's spirits sank. Another problem demanded his attention. He was growing weary of the repetition. "What sort of matter is it?" he questioned, not willing to leave the celebration without further information. Faramir regarded the messenger as well, as interested in the response as his friend.

"I dare not say here, sire," the man responded, "but I do not request your presence lightly."

The king sighed. As much as he wished to brush this mystery aside and deal with it at a time when he was not so tired or so full of food and drink, he knew he should not. He was king, and he could not shirk his duty for selfish reasons. "Then we shall go," he declared. He looked the group assembled with an apologetic grimace. "I am sure it is a simple thing."

Gimli lifted his tankard. "We shall save you a glass, laddie," he promised.

Aragorn nodded. He caught his wife's gaze as he did, and he offered her questioning glance a weak smile to assure her that all was well. She seemed to accept his affirmation. He turned to his friends. "I will be back shortly," he said. After that, the messenger led him from the celebration, wishing vehemently that business could spare him just this once.

* * *

But he did not return shortly. All too soon an hour had passed. Then another and another. The will to rejoin the festival had all but fled him in the wake of what had been found, so he had simply retired to one of his offices. And now he sat, bathed in only the light of a few flickering candles, his eyes dully watching the recovered object now resting idly upon his desk. The shadows crept closer and closer to him, kept at bay by only the weak illumination that spread about him. This time, though, he did not feel threatened by them. The hour was growing very late, he knew, but he found he hardly cared. His mind was racing endlessly about a single prospect, and for all the want of his aching spirit, he could not resolve a conflict within him.

Aragorn leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the fine wooden desk, leaning his chin on his hands. Never did his gaze leave the dark cloth that covered the  _palantír_  set before him. A few of the men who had been cleaning some of the lower guests rooms had decided to continue working rather than join the Winter Festival, and as they had labored, they had found the orb hidden beneath the wreckage in one of the quarters. Immediately the king had been summoned. It was not the seeing stone once kept in the Tower of Ecthelion and now again safely hidden in its lofty offices. This was Holis' stone. Aragorn knew it instantly, though he could not begin to fathom  _how_  the  _palantír_ had ended up in such a strange place. Yet it was unmistakably that of the emperor. Upon its sleek surface was a single blemish, an indentation where a shard of the rock had been gouged free. Surrounding this were a few wispy scratches and cracks. Certainly the piece that had found its way into Legolas' possession had come from this stone.

Confused and alarmed, he had covered the  _palantír_  and taken it to his office. Now, some hours of thought and woe later, he was weary and no closer to any semblance of a decision. It had not taken him more than a moment of thought for this particular idea to strike him. After all, it made perfect sense. This was the  _palantír_ , presumably, through which Holis had put upon Legolas' spirit the very illusion that held him captive. Logic dictated that this stone, then, could be used to remove it. Aragorn did not know if such a speculation would prove true, although he desperately wished it to be so. He remembered Faramir's words, spoken in a rush of discovery as he paraphrased what he had learned from the book Legolas had found. Perhaps if Holis had had the will to destroy Legolas' reality, Aragorn could have the will to restore it.

But he did not know. The shard of  _palantír_  seemed imperative to such an operation, and that had been lost in the arrow they had used to wound the emperor. Moreover, he had no experience wielding this power; the only one of them (besides Holis) who had done it successfully was Arwen, and he was not about to subject her to this task. He knew if he asked it of her, she would gladly attempt to reach Legolas through the  _palantír_  and coax him from his prison. However, he was not so willing to do so. The orb before him felt evil, corrupted and dark to his very spirit, not unlike the seeing stone he had encountered in Denethor's tomb. Could the insanity and obsession of a  _palantír's_ owner imprint upon its very nature? He was beginning to believe so, for this stone, even covered and hidden, radiated a cold darkness that he was unwilling to expose. Further, he was not certain, if a link to Legolas could at all be created, what might lie in the Elf's shattered world. What horrors might linger there? He was not certain he wished for his wife to submit herself to the nightmare he knew remained between them and their friend for what he knew to be a small chance of success.

Still, fate worked in mysterious ways. Other things had been inexplicably and suddenly gifted to them on this journey. Why not this as well? Was this his next reward for blind faith? Was this the weapon he might use to combat the last of Holis' grasp upon them?

These thoughts were the only things that made him ponder this point. Using Holis' cursed seeing stone to rescue Legolas seemed terribly far-fetched, but he could not abandon the plan. It had come to him hours ago, and he had debated and argued with himself, two divided parts of his mind warring over this prospect. Was it worth the risk of damaging himself? Could it even work? Was it possible that his intrusion might force Legolas down further? Did he have the experience or the will to even face what lay ahead?

And if they brought Legolas back, what then?

Aragorn sighed, pain settling behind his eyes with the coming of a serious headache. He rubbed his brow, trying to ease the dull misery. He watched the orb a moment longer, torn and tired of indecision.  _By now,_  he reasoned,  _I should trust the strange habits of destiny. Perhaps today is the turning point. Perhaps good fortune is come to us now. If so, I should not doubt what is given to me._  The fine celebration, the rise of his city from the ashes of defeat, Faramir's recovery, Éowyn's pregnancy… Legolas' return would truly complete this wonderful day. Was such a dream too good to possibly be real?

Again, he did not know. Yet the excitement borne from the mere prospect rushed over him, making his heart thunder and his body quiver in a cold sweat. Suddenly he was decided. There was no reason not to try. If it would bring Legolas back to him, he would do anything, face any danger, attempt even the most implausible. He grabbed the  _palantír_ , keeping the orb hidden from the cloth, and left the office.

A few minutes later he was outside the closed door to Legolas' room. The walk had passed without his conscious notice, his body moving him through the hallways of the Citadel of its own accord, his mind whirling with exhilarated thought. He tried to convince himself that he should not entertain such hope. This was, after all, a mighty stretch of reasoning, and no amount of belief in his own providence could fill the gaping holes in his logic. The shard was missing, and he had never attempted this before. Surely the task would be all but impossible to his untrained, inexperienced mind. Yet, conversely, he had made himself believe that if he could just open the path, that if he could just find Legolas beyond the veil that separated the Elf's spirit from them all, his friend would come to him.

After all, he had before.

Aragorn shook his head, forcing his mind to the present, holding the  _palantír_  in one hand and grasping the doorknob with the other. As he opened the door, he began to hear a soft sound. It sounded like singing. Curious, the king stepped inside, the portal creaking slightly as it swung slowly open.

The room was dark, but not so dark as to hide Pippin's small form as he sat by Legolas' bed. The Hobbit gave a start, looking up in surprise and nearly leaping from his chair. The last note of his song escalated into sudden gasp as he regarded the man with wide eyes. "Oh! Forgive me, Aragorn! I didn't know you were coming…"

Aragorn shook his head, equally surprised to see the small creature here at this late hour. "No, forgive me. I did not mean to startle you," he said, smiling weakly. He glanced to Legolas, seeing the Elf in much the same condition as he had been earlier in the day. Arwen had last attended to the prince, brushing his hair and braiding it, massaging his muscles, bathing him and feeding him. As always, Aragorn had observed his wife do this with a shred of hope that this time would be the one in which their love broke through to their friend. He saw now that, once more, they had failed. Legolas was still, sleeping, apparently lifeless or soulless. Aragorn no longer knew if the two were different at all.

He grasped the  _palantír_. The words were free from his lips before he could stop them. "What are you doing here?"

Pippin looked down, as though ashamed or realizing his intentions were simply too big for him. "I… well, when you didn't come back, we got to reminiscing, Gimli, Merry, and I. And we thought back to Edoras. That was the last time we really drank together. You remember, don't you? And they were laughing at it all, only all I could think about was Legolas. He wasn't very…  _enthusiastic_  about our antics." Pippin smiled fondly, his dark eyes twinkling with what Aragorn knew to be tears. "I remember watching him as Gimli tried to explain our little game to him. He was holding a mug of ale as though we were all crazy for suggesting he drink it and play along. But he did. All of it, without a single breath…" He shook his head, pulling from the memory, his glazed eyes drifting from Legolas to focus on Aragorn. "I missed him, so I thought I'd come here. Merry and Gimli didn't seem to mind that I went on my way." He gave a bit of a chuckle. "For once, I think Merry's had more to drink than me."

Aragorn grinned weakly at that, stepping further into the room and closing the door behind him. A fire burned warmly in the hearth, its heat and light as constant as Legolas' stillness. He made his way to the other chair resting idly beside Legolas' bed and sat in it. The  _palantír_ , wrapped still in the cloth, he rested in his lap. He reached for Legolas' hand, taking it into his own and absently checking the Elf's pulse. No change. He squeezed Legolas' fingers, but his grasp was not returned. He sighed. Once more he was forced to wonder why he hoped. Each time, it was for naught. And each time, finding faith again was becoming apparently more and more futile.

Pippin had seated himself again, his eyes glancing between Aragorn and Legolas. The young Took released a long breath, shaking his head slightly. "What happened to him, Aragorn?" he softly asked.

The king raised his head, his eyes settling on Pippin's shadowy form, surprised by the question. He supposed he should not have been. After all, Merry and Pippin had not witnessed what he had. They had joined this battle only at its end, when its complexities had already come to pass and all the misery had already been bared. Surely they had been told of the happenings in Gondor since the attack upon Cair Andros in early autumn, but he doubted whatever tale they had heard could ever begin to describe the true horror and severity of the events. The question, thus, weighed upon him. He did not know if he could answer. He did not know that he knew the answer. He spoke what his heart offered when his mind failed him. "I lost him," he whispered sadly, feeling a familiar sting in his eyes.

Pippin did not respond to that immediately, leaving Aragorn to his mounting misery. But then he did speak. "No, I don't think so. Legolas wouldn't leave you, Aragorn, no matter what."

While the thought was meant to be endearing, he had heard it before, and with each passing day Legolas remained trapped inside himself, he found himself struggling harder and harder to believe. "Though I want nothing so strongly as this, he should not come back," he said, his voice flat with defeat and quivering with emotion. "He has suffered too greatly to brave again this world of hurt. My selfish heart longs for his company, but I know he is… he is…" He could barely speak for the pain! "He is  _sheltered_ where he is now. I know not how I could even begin to help him, even if I could reach him and pull him back to this world.

"I ache inside for him, Pippin, and for what he endured because I was blindly and selfishly seeking what I thought best. Even now, when I know in my heart that his body is broken and his spirit marred, I want him back more than I want his peace." The words came faster and faster, mingled with sobs, and the tears escaped his eyes. He was so tired of crying, so tired of this despair, but he had no strength to keep it at bay. "It is the same as ever. Nothing has changed, only now I see myself for what I truly am. Always has he suffered for my sake. His father's condemnation. The War of the Ring. Had he not taken the road through the Dimholt, had he not followed my lead… The sea would never have come to him." His voice faded to a tortured whisper, tears leaking from unblinking eyes. "I kept him here. I knew he was tormented, torn between this world and the next, but I did not care. And when the war came, I… I turned him away. He was sick, and I allowed him to leave. I did not even try to stop him. I was contented to allow him to fight my battle for me, and until now I did not realize that I never even had to ask. I have never had to ask him of aught! Ever does he give, and I… I take with my eyes closed and my hands clawing greedily for more…" He bowed his head, shame spilling from him in horrible, black waves. "Even now I cannot make myself let him go."

Silence. Truthfully, Aragorn did not expect Pippin to respond. After all, this was surely a terribly awkward moment for the small Hobbit. He had never witnessed Aragorn, steadfast leader of the Fellowship, silent sentinel and powerful warrior, King of Gondor, so utterly wrecked. The man before him, hunched over the bed, feebly grasping the hand of a fallen friend as though to release him was a trying torture, hardly resembled the man Pippin had once knew. This man was a ghost bearing a façade of strength and recovery. This man, beneath his calm and control, had been reduced to a mere shade of his former self. How could a friend, and one who had not witnessed the devastation that had been the instrument of this heinous transformation at that, possibly contend with this?

But Pippin did. Hobbits, as always, were made of sterner and simpler stuff than mere men. "That's not true, Aragorn. I don't know who told you that, but it's not true," he said. He slid from his chair and stepped around the bed. Aragorn lifted his teary eyes, swallowing a sob, and regarded the Hobbit as he approached. A bit of nervous apprehension shone in Pippin's eyes, but stronger than this was the growing need to offer what comfort he could. The Hobbit had always been as such. He was not the wisest, strongest, or bravest of his lot, but he had a heart far greater than any, and his foolery and innocence made him endearing. "And you know it's not true. You don't really think that."

"I must," he whimpered. "I can find no other cause for this. I deserve his hate. I deserve this."

"No," Pippin countered firmly. His hand fell to Aragorn's shoulder and squeezed firmly. "I don't know what's happened here. I can only guess that it was something truly terrible, darker than anything we've ever faced before. I don't know much about war or about Elves or about the sea, but I know Legolas. He would never hate you, Aragorn. Never."

He had heard these words, from Arwen, from Elladan and Elrohir, from Gimli. Even from himself. But he simply could not believe them. And until he heard the truth from Legolas, he feared he would not be able to cast aside this guilt. That was, of course, if his friend was willing to forgive him at all. Part of him despised the weakness pouring unrestrained from his lips and his eyes. Indignantly this section of his soul raged, proclaiming this depression to be only what Holis had wished, these thoughts exactly what the emperor had meant to put upon him. On some level he realized that his behavior now was the product of Holis' final manipulation. But he was not strong enough to overcome that. The smallest bits of truth in Holis' lies were enough to convince him of their total veracity. Such was the power the emperor had once proclaimed.

"I didn't know anything about you," Pippin said, ending a long moment of tense quiet. "I didn't know who you were. I didn't know who Legolas was, either. But I watched the two of you together and I  _knew_  you were good and kind. I saw the look in your eyes when he spoke to you, the smile on his face when you jested, and I knew that, as much as you two tried to remain stoic and aloof, you were no different from us really. You were like Frodo and Sam or Merry and me. I knew I could trust you, because friends that loved each other so deeply weren't the sort to ever betray one's faith." The Hobbit smiled, his own tears glittering in the light of the fire. "I know what it's like to see someone you love hurt because of mistakes you've made. I've done the same. But I also know that friends,  _brothers_ , will always forgive one another. This guilt you feel isn't right. It's not real. It's been used to hurt you, and nothing more." He shook his head. "Legolas stays because he loves you, Aragorn, and he doesn't want to let  _you_  go, either."

The king bitterly looked away, averting his gaze to the floor. "I am not worth his happiness."

"You  _are_  his happiness. As is Faramir and Gimli and Lady Arwen. I'd like to think, on some level, that I am, too." Aragorn sniffled, his shoulders sagging in a most unrefined manner, wiping at his eyes. He found it within himself to turn embarrassed eyes upon his companion. The Hobbit grinned tenderly, his cheeks glistening. "Fellowship endures. You taught me that."

Somehow that made him feel better. He met Pippin's gaze, rising from the mire within him to smile tenderly. "I am sorry you had to bear witness to this," he murmured shamefully.

Pippin squeezed his shoulder affably. He did not need to speak for Aragorn to understand. This, too, was a gift friends offered wordlessly to one another. Comfort. Support. His heart was still torn and aching, but slowly he felt a soothing balm begin to ease his pain. Perhaps there was truth as well in what the Hobbit spoke. If anything, he was beginning to understand that few things were strictly false. Life was rarely simple. The greater strength was maintaining oneself in the ebb and flow of the perceptions of others. Power was not defined by the will to command others or the ambition to mold the world as one saw fit. Power was standing firm in a storm of change. Courage was maintaining true to the heart. A man either made what he was or allowed others to mold him as they wished. In the darkest of hours, great strength was remaining true to oneself.

And, with help and good fortune, he would continue to do that.

He needed to have faith now. He had found his way through a storm that had attempted to rip him apart and forge him anew as something lesser than what he was. He was certain that Legolas, who had always been stronger and braver than he, could do the same.

"What is that?"

Aragorn pulled from his thoughts at the soft question, and he felt against the weight in his lap. His plan, all but forgotten with this exchange, suddenly rushed back into his head, sending exhilarating jolts of energy through his previously beaten body. He straightened his form, his hands coming to hold the seeing stone. "It is a  _palantír_. It is what our enemy used to hurt Legolas, to do this to him."

He felt Pippin stiffen slightly. No doubt the young Hobbit was recalling his own less than pleasant experience with the seeing stones during the War of the Ring. Only Gandalf's power and compassion had saved the inquisitive creature from damage or death at the hands of Sauron's malice when Pippin had foolishly looked into the orb they had obtained from Isengard. Aragorn could understand his aversion. Given all evil the  _palantíri_  had made possible, he was beginning to feel the same.

"What do you mean to do with it?" the Hobbit questioned after a pause. His steady tone thinly veiled his apprehension.

Aragorn sighed softly. Slowly he began to slip the cloth from the stone, revealing its sleek surface. Inside the swirl of dark, deep colors was as peaceful and entrancing as ever. "I am not entirely certain," he admitted. "I want to try to reach Legolas with it, though I do know how specifically to do that."

"Concentrate?" Pippin offered. "Oh, dear, that's rather lame."

Aragorn could not help but smile slightly. "Lame you might say, but as good a place to start as any." The seeing stone, now entirely uncovered, caught no light from the roaring fire. The golden illumination strangely covered its shining surface, but no light managed to slip inside it and penetrate it. It was as dark as night and as fluid as a black ocean. Aragorn stared at it, feeling that chilling evil reach towards him. It seemed more potent now that the seeing stone was freed of the cloth. The king glanced to Legolas, but the Elf had not stirred. If the proximity of the  _palantír_  at all affected him, it was not obvious. The king drew a deep breath, resolving himself. "Hold tight to him, Pippin. I am not certain what this may do, to him or to myself."

Pippin swallowed, his eyes widening slightly in dismay. Yet if he wished to dissuade Aragorn from this task, he made no effort to do so. Instead, he nodded. He sat on the bed and gathered Legolas' limp hands in his own. Then he laid a small palm on the Elf's high brow. The prince was still, unresponsive to the Hobbit's touch. Pippin seemed nearly as troubled by this as he was by the prospect of what his friend intended. "Be careful, Aragorn," he softly implored.

The king offered his worried companion a tentative smile and a nod. Then he relaxed his body. He did not know what tortures might lay between himself and Legolas' soul, but he would brave them all to see his dearest friend restored. Determined, he narrowed his eyes, stilling the rushed beating of his heart. He rested his fingertips on the icy orb, resisting the urge to recoil for the coldness invading his flesh. Then he looked inside. He expected fire and pain, terror and torment. He expected the substance of Legolas' captivity to be laid before him, to burn into his mind and forever scar his spirit. The darkness drew him inside, lulling and luring, and he slipped into its embraces, arming himself with love and devotion against what he knew to be coming.

But it did not come. Many minutes passed, and he saw nothing.

Aragorn grimaced as his invasion was met with icy resistance. He fought, pouring his concentration into the task, forcing his will forth from his spirit and into the abyss before him. But it was for naught, for the curtains of darkness would not part for him. Everything was laden with midnight, and the chill invaded his body with agonizing power. It pushed him back.  _No. Please, no._  Frustration and fury welled up within him, and he scrambled, fighting to latch himself onto anything and maintain his place. The cold hurt too much, though. He was not strong enough.  _No!_

And then he was back in the room, the warm fire pleasant to his frozen body, his mind spinning nauseously, his form shaking. "Aragorn!" He heard Pippin call to him, but everything was remote, distant, lost to him. He fell forward, his hand slamming unto the bed subconsciously to prevent his fall. The  _palantír_  fell from his lap and struck the floor with a loud thud, rolling slowly across the room away from them. "Aragorn, are you alright? Aragorn!"

The king drew a breath finally into his frigid lungs, shivering violently. He shook his head as Pippin steadied. "Ai, I was not welcome…" he declared woefully, shaken and frightened by the force of his repulsion. "I am so sorry."

The Hobbit hugged him tightly a moment. Aragorn thought to cry, but there were no tears left within him as Pippin held his head to his chest. He slipped from reality a moment, so very cold and hurt. Vaguely he felt Pippin leave him, pulling the cloth gently from his hands. He heard the sounds of the fire popping and feet walking softly across the floor. When the Hobbit returned, he was aware again, warmed as time passed. Pippin carried the  _palantír_  cautiously, the sphere once again covered by the cloth. He set the item carefully to the desk, clearly glad to be rid of it. "Should I send for someone?"

Aragorn worked to moisten his mouth enough to speak. "No," he said, panting slightly still. The chill was fading. He imagined it was akin to the coldness of oblivion. Of death. He shuddered. "I will be fine."

Pippin did not look overly convinced, but he submitted, walking again to the bed. He settled himself into his chair, his expression torn. Silence came, one wrought with tension and fear. Aragorn recovered slowly, eventually finding it within him to lift his head and return his mind and senses to his surroundings. He forced himself to breathe evenly, the panic lingering still. His eyes drifted to Legolas, and then he looked away, the brunt of his failure heavy and hurtful.

Eventually the tension released them and the pain dissipated. Exhaustion came to claim him again, dulling the consequences of his silly action, of his inability, once again, to save his friend. He leaned back into the plush chair, feeling the heat of the fire caress him in silken waves. It was easing him towards sleep. Apathy, borne from fatigue and too much activity, promised a bit of peace, and he was eager to oblige its seductive call.

Pippin was humming, lost to his own thoughts as well. The tune was soft, pretty, and fairly familiar. The king believed he recognized it from his days among the Fellowship. It was also what the small creature had been singing when the king had appeared. "What is it that you hum?" he questioned.

Pippin looked up from Legolas' still form. Aragorn's blurry vision cast a halo of light around the small creature. He shook his head and blinked. It was gone. The Hobbit smiled tenderly. "Just a song. One from the Shire."

"I remember the melody," the king idly commented. He grinned weakly, tiredly, closing his eyes. "The lyrics are lost to me, though."

"They are simple enough," explained Pippin. And then he sang:

 _Gone is the sun but still I must stay_  
In a night too deep, I've lost my way.  
I cry to you; these hurts do not mend.  
And all has come to its final end.

 _But then I see, alone though I seem,_  
This is no end at all, but the trick of a dream.  
My eyes I open, and the sun I now find  
As clear as it was before I fell blind.

 _And you smile and say, 'Why do you fear?_  
The night is day, and e'er I was near.'  
To this I sigh, joyful and relieved.  
'I'm sorry, my friend. Too soon I grieved.'

 

The Hobbit's clear voice faded. Aragorn opened his eyes, his mind taken by the gentle song. Pippin smiled knowingly but said naught, and the weary man settled his heart.  _Time heals all ills._  The king looked to Legolas' peaceful face.  _I will wait._


	43. All Souls Pass

Six long months passed. Half a year escaped them, and never did Legolas wake. He slept as the snows came again, pressing their white fury upon Minas Tirith and covering it heavily in a blanket of ice. He slept as the sun rose higher into the blue sky and cast its warming rays upon the wintry layer. He slept as the air freed itself from the confines of the chill, as the scents of new leaves and fresh blossoms filled the city. Winter became spring, heralding new life, and soon the quiet, frozen world was bustling with activity. Bird songs greeted each day. Rains washed away the grays of winter and the last of the soot and grime caked upon the White City. It was beautiful, and the fine weather and new season sparked to life in the denizens of Gondor a vibrant sense of well-being. Spring was grand and gracious, and soon the streets were full of excited business, the sounds of chatter, of children playing and music, portraying the peace and security that once again claimed the city. Freedom from war. Freedom from winter. The fine days promised both.

But the Elf was comatose still, and hopes that the coming of warm weather and rejuvenated life would save him soon proved empty. Those close to the Prince of Mirkwood lingered in a peculiar state, torn between the vivacious pull of the season and the link they still desperately held to their comatose friend. He was quickly and unwittingly becoming something of a relic of darker days, a testament to the last grasp of a lingering nightmare. Though none wished to consider their dear friend as such a thing, inevitably and invariably it was happening. Night and day. Good and evil. Life and death. The lines between the two grew more distinct as time continued to pull them farther and farther away from the war. Life was continuing, restored and strong again. Life, except for Legolas. It was difficult to remain optimistic when such a fact was blatantly clear. The prince, once so powerful, lively, and bright, remained swathed in shadow. He did not respond to their prods, to their tears, to their love and company. It was frustrating that, while all the world seemed to speed onward towards its ever-changing future, Legolas was apparently trapped in a static shell that none could breach. It was harrowing to think he would never come back to them.

So hope was maintained. But nothing could slow the hours from becoming days, and the days from becoming weeks and months. Soon it became summer. The weather warmed further, the sun's gentle fury chasing away the coolness of spring, and the days grew long and hot. The trees inside Minas Tirith were fully filled with green, and its gardens were lush and verdant. The Citadel's massive courtyard was pure again, its grasses neatly trimmed and flourishing again, all indications of the hideous fire and the putrid snow gone from it as though they had never existed. And the Pelennor stretched the White City in waves of gold and green, as beautiful and pristine as they had been before any of this had happened. That was the way of nature, after all. She consumed the dead, the detritus, the defeated, and poured from their carcasses new life. Nothing was wasted in this world, and only the earth could so easily and so completely rise from catastrophe with such perfection and grace as to make the observer wonder if there had ever been any wound at all. It was magnificent and belittling all at once. Men held no such power.

Still, to call what they had accomplished in six months' time anything less than extraordinary would not be giving it its due. Minas Tirith was whole again. The Gateway's repairs had been completed at the end of winter, and now it stood, as strong and as impenetrable as ever. The streets, once filled with debris, wreckage, and corpses, were clean again and open to the daily business of the city's citizens. The third gate was far more difficult to repair, as much of it had been burned during the siege, but as summer came upon them it was nearly complete. The unending efforts and enthusiasm of the Dwarves had never faltered as new stones had been lovingly fashioned and meticulously lowered to the growing wall. In a few weeks, Gimli assured, the gate and its ramparts would be finished. The buildings around the area, scorched and destroyed by the fire, had been repaired and were now again occupied by the families that owned them. For all intents and purposes, much had returned to its normal state. A few scars lingered still in Minas Tirith, ones that would perhaps always remain. Buildings where repair was too costly or difficult. Tombs. Memories. It was true enough, though, that time healed all ills. With each passing day, the horrible war faded from the minds of those who had lived through it, and people began to recall fondly those who had died, remembering moments of peace rather than the last few seconds spent fearfully anticipating the end. The pain faded to a dull ache and then to nothing at all. The last wisps of a nightmare disappeared with the waking sun. Minas Tirith was proud and prosperous, the banners of the White Tree proclaiming victory once again to the world.

Time, though, for all its power could not touch the Elf.

Aragorn sighed, breathing deeply. Below him the bakers were bustling. They were very busy this morning, and the pleasant aromas of spiced and sweet breads, freshly pulled from the ovens, wafted up on the warm air to the balcony upon which he sat. Accompanying this scent was a hint of the sea, its tangy, salty caress gentle as the breezes blew it across the city. The king looked up towards the sky. It was truly a lovely day. The cerulean scene was scarcely interrupted by clouds and even then only the wispy sort. The sun was bright, but it was not too hot. Summer was still new, after all, and the heavy haze of the later months had not yet come to them. The air was warm and pleasant. It was quiet, dawn just barely offering its reign to noon. The city appeared before him, golden in the rays of the sun. A few white birds soared through the town beneath him. Serene. Peaceful.

He hoped that, somehow, Legolas was aware of the wonder of the world around him. Aragorn left the doors to the balcony wide open, standing in the portal a moment longer, before returning to the bed. The servants waited patiently for the king to lift their charge so that they could change the bedding and straighten the area. Aragorn smiled briefly at them as he approached. He forced away the creeping sorrow as he looked down upon his still friend, using the fine spirits of the new day to combat the ever-present grief. "It's a lovely day, isn't it, sire?" one the healers asked.

"Indeed, it is," Aragorn responded cheerfully. He helped the other man pull the sheets away from the Elf's body.

"You plan to take the prince outside again? It seemed to help him before, I reckon," the healer declared, taking the bunched up sheet from his lord's hands. Aragorn nodded, pleased with the comment. Certainly it was overly idealistic. These last few days it had occurred to him that the fine weather might do Legolas some good, that the sun and fresh air might somehow aid in his recovery. So he had come in the morning, early enough to avoid the opening of the day's business, to take his comatose friend outside. These tiny journeys into the outside world had not had the depth of influence Aragorn had wished. Still, as he stood there looking down upon his friend, he tried to convince himself that a bit of color had returned to Legolas' sallow cheeks, that his hair had regained a bit of its shine, that he seemed  _better_. Honestly, he could not say this was true, and he knew in his heart that it was not, but it felt comfortable to think such a thing. Blind faith was far better than no faith at all.

The healer spoke again, pulling him from his reverie. "I will have the servants bring the prince's breakfast to the balcony again, my Lord, should you wish it."

"Yes. Thank you."

The men and ladies went about their business then. Aragorn watched them a moment more, struck with an emotion he could not quite describe. This was the same sort of thing he had seen for months. Methodically, mechanically, these people worked through a ritual of sorts, cleaning and caring for the Elf lord and his belongings. How commonplace this had become! The thought irked him. Legolas had been gone from them for so long he supposed this attitude was inevitable. No longer did people regard him as a person. He was a task, an object, almost, to be washed, fed, clothed, and treated. It hurt to realize this. As extraordinary as it was to have an Elf languish so, the… _import_  of it all had abated for them. This was just a daily routine. They did not believe Legolas would ever awaken.

He was beginning to wonder if he even believed that.

Shaking his head against these dark thoughts, he slipped one arm under the Elf's knees and the other beneath his shoulders. Then he lifted his friend's limp form into his arms. Again he felt the press of bones through skin; Legolas had lost quite a bit of weight, the substance of his muscles degrading, his lean, powerful body withering away before Aragorn's very eyes. He tried to ignore these things, but he could not completely cast them aside and they needled his struggling good spirits from the back of his mind. Cradling the archer tightly to his chest, he made his way outside.

The sunlight washed over them as they emerged from the room. The light blasted away the darkness inside him, and he smiled. "Look, my friend," he murmured softly in Elvish, gazing out over Minas Tirith. "Sunlight, as far as the eye can see." But Legolas did not see. His eyes remained tightly closed, his head tucked against the man's chest, his loose blond hair wavering limply in the breeze where it spilled over Aragorn's arm. The king softly sighed. "You would love it."

He stepped to the bench resting against the wall of the Citadel. The large wooden piece was draped in a red, velvet covering, its cushion back and narrow length resembling a day bed. A few pillows had been left upon it from the day before. Carefully Aragorn sat, laying Legolas upon the seat, stretching the Elf's long limbs and propping his leaden form against his own chest. After making certain of his friend's comfort, he leaned back, finding the cushion pleasantly warm beneath the fine satin of his tunic. He reached his arm around his friend to grasp Legolas' shoulder, embracing him lightly to both support his position and for the sake of solace. The prince's head fell against the man's chest, and Aragorn dropped a tender kiss to Legolas' brow. "This day becomes you," he said after a long breath. "You really ought not to miss it."

Only the quiet chirping of a few birds sitting upon the railing of the balcony answered his comments. Aragorn watched them chatter for a moment before they sprung up and flew away. He traced their path towards the blue sky until he could see them no longer. Then he looked down, feeling alone and tired. His mind wandered as he sat there under the warm rays of the sun. He thought of many things, but mostly in passing, for he cared not to dwell. Much had happened in the last six months, and often the days had escaped him like rain dripping down from heavy clouds. He pondered how so much time had slipped from his fingers. The many hours he had spent at Legolas' side had seemed long and lethargic, the minutes of his vigil unending. In actuality, as he now looked back it, it had been no time at all. And all the moments of wishing, of wanting, had done nothing to return to him his lost friend.

His chest ached with an intangible pain as he recalled the blustery day the twins had returned from Imladris. The search had, unfortunately, proved futile. Long did they linger in what remained of Elrond's once massive libraries, but the books they had remembered to be in their father's possession were now gone. No one could rightly say what had become of them, though it seemed likely Elrond might have taken them with him to Valinor. Elladan and Elrohir had desperately scoured what tomes remained for information, but the fact of the  _thral-gûl_  was simply too sensitive, powerful, and dark for the books deemed safe enough to have been left. Frustrated and worried, the two had then ridden to Ithilien, thinking perhaps some of the ancient writings of the Elves had come to Legolas' care. After all, an assortment of relics from Rivendell, Lothlorien, and Mirkwood had been donated and taken to the new settlement in Gondor. However, their efforts there were in vain, as well. There was simply no information to be found.

Accepting this seemed impossible. The king closed his ears, hearing Gimli's angry shouts, Éomer's listless denials, Faramir's lost eyes, Arwen's silent tears. All the emotion, the tears, the frustration, fear, and fury, meant nothing. From their inability to admit this defeat stemmed a greater wave of desperation, one fueled by warring factions of hope and despair. Though he had failed using the  _palantír_  to reach Legolas, Aragorn found himself considering again the possibility. This time he had mentioned it to Gimli and Faramir, and though the steward as doubtful as he, Gimli had not permitted them to let the concept drop without exploring it further. Holis'  _palantír_ , covered and sealed in the Tower of Ecthelion, was again brought forth into the light of day. At first, Faramir had offered his skills in gazing through the seeing stone, as he best understood the machinations of Holis' success with inflicting his will upon another soul. But the steward was met with icy failure. Gimli had then tried, believing that perhaps Legolas would be more willing to come to him, to trust him, as his was not a face used against the Elf during his torture. But the Dwarf could not penetrate the void. And finally Arwen, the only one of them to successfully wield the stone, had attempted to reach Legolas' spirit. But the queen was denied as well, and with the third disappointment, the idea was abandoned.

Minds raced. Thoughts were twisted and turned, facts dissected and reassembled into a jumbled ghost of what had happened. Time dulled memories, and much that came under scrutiny was eventually cast aside in doubt. What they had once supposed then seemed utterly wrong now, and they would never have a way to know for certain how this damage was done to their Elven friend. The only cure for their restless desperation had been acquiescence to the fact that they were helpless, and such a thing came only with days becoming weeks and weeks becoming months. Only that made the pain dim, the helplessness less acute, the anger abate. It was hardly the miracle for which they hoped, but at least the hurt subsided so that they could live again.

When the snows had begun to melt, the Rohirrim had left Minas Tirith. Éomer seemed reluctant to depart, given both his sister's pregnancy and Legolas' condition, but his kingdom required his care. Only a few weeks, thus, did he spend in Edoras before returning once more, bearing a brood of fine horses to replenish the dwindling stock for the army as a gift. Aragorn knew immediately this task was merely an excuse, for Éomer had obviously come to learn of Legolas' condition. Finding his Elven friend unchanged, the disappointed lord had returned to his own kingdom. Over the last months this had become something of a ritual. Éomer came often, always at the behest of some menial chore that was probably better left to messengers and runners. Aragorn smiled. It was endearing, the young man's naïve hope. It was almost as if he believed that by looking away Legolas would awake, likening the experience perhaps to the proverbial truth that a watched pot never boiled. The simplicity of it was inexplicably touching. The young king was presently in Minas Tirith, though this time he had come with a more specific purpose. The time for Éowyn's child to be born was fast approaching.

Merry and Pippin, as well, had lingered. At first the journey had been too dangerous and arduous, given the heavy snows and cold. When spring had come, they had simply ignored the matter of responsibility to those in the Shire, working instead with the Dwarfs and men in rebuilding Minas Tirith. It was a task they needed, the sort of effort that occupied otherwise idle hands and hearts. Neither of them were willing to concede that Legolas was gone forever, and instead visiting him dutifully, filling his room with their tales and laughter and songs. Never did they cry over the fallen Elf. Quite the contrary, they were certain the proper amount of time and devotion, that happiness alone, would reach Legolas. They refused to think that their friend would not come back them, believing instead that the archer had simply lost his way. Aragorn was glad for their faith, and he was glad they found excuses to stay in Gondor. Though he felt slightly guilty at their shirking of other duties, he was thankful for the light they brought to every matter, to every moment. They remained confident that all would right itself.

Also, Faramir, his men, and his wife stayed in the White City. At first there had simply been too much work to allow for any other option. The steward was desperately needed, as Aragorn alone could not contend with the innumerable issues the rebuilding nation faced. There were papers to be signed, funds to be drawn from the coffers and allotted, construction to oversee, people to advise. The work had been, at times, never-ending and terribly worrisome. Yet this dark time of little sleep, much frustration, and constant toil had ended some weeks prior. Now the steward claimed another purpose in Minas Tirith: he did not wish to stress Éowyn with the move back to Emyn Arnen. Hundreds of refugees lived still in the White City. Scouting expeditions had been sent to Ithilien to assess the damage and determine the safety of the area. The abandoned Garden of Gondor was empty, forlorn, and lonely. Much of the buildings remained standing, although few required repairs. Farther south, the fledgling Elvish colony stood as an vacant lot of stone, dismal and dark without the light of its people. Though the damage to both places was minimal, it would be many months of work to return all its people and supplies and see the settlement restored to normalcy. Éowyn was close to her time, and Faramir believed it to simply be wiser to remain close to the skilled healers in Minas Tirith, where comforts and safety were assured.

But, more than this, Aragorn knew Faramir, deep in his heart, had no wish to return to Emyn Arnen without Legolas. The restoration the two had begun in Ithilien had bonded them closely, and the steward felt it was wrong to return to the remains of their dream alone. Faramir had never said as much, but every time the matter of their reclaiming Ithilien was mentioned, Aragorn saw the grief and shame in his eyes. To the young lord, doing such a thing was akin to a final betrayal, to letting go.

Thus, in many ways, though time had escaped their fingers so quickly, they as well were as untouched as their friend. As static. As unwilling to step forward and claim a destiny. And as much as that hurt, it was not something any of them were willing to change.

Aragorn released a long breath, tipping his head back and looking up at the stone overhang providing shade. He closed his eyes. He was tired, physically and emotionally. As much as he hated the thought, he could not deny that Legolas was becoming a burden to them all.  _No, not Legolas. This… this sickness upon him! Never Legolas!_  How he wished for an answer! How he wished for the truth, for the way to bring his friend back! Yet as days and days passed, each as disappointing and wearying as every one before, he was beginning to simply yearn for it all to end.

"Estel?" Arwen stood at the open entrance to the balcony. In her hands was a silver tray, and upon it a bowl of hot cereal, a glass of water, and a few slices of fruit rested. She smiled at him, and his spirits rose at seeing her. She was positively radiant in the morning sun, her lavender gown swaying as she approached, the beams of light setting her dark tresses aglow in rich show of brown. She came closer, setting the tray a table beside where Aragorn sat.

Aragorn reached for her hand, weaving her white fingers into his own rough, bronzed digits before kissing them. "I did not expect to see you so early," he commented, surprised at the relief he expressed in his voice. Truly he was glad for her company.

"Lady Ioreth was forced to alter her schedule to accommodate a birthing," the queen replied, brushing her thumb along the length of Aragorn's bearded cheek. "I will see to her questions at another time."

He nodded. It had become the quest of Arwen, Éowyn, and Ioreth to better outfit the Houses of Healing since the siege. The place had become so disorganized and inundated with wounded that many men had suffered with injuries far too long while the healers rushed to contend with volume of work. Realizing the shortages, the three had sought to train more people in the medicinal arts. The mess of the Houses' libraries was being carefully sorted and catalogued. Herbs were being grown, prepared, and dried. It was a grand task, to be certain, but they were glad to do it.

Arwen sat on the bench, using the small space left by Legolas' body for herself, and though her position was likely less than comfortable, she did not complain. Her placid expression never faltered, the glow of her face ethereal, but Aragorn knew her well enough to sense the pain in her eyes as she gazed upon their friend. He felt a tension that mildly worried him, but he could not place it and so ignored it. She murmured a greeting to Legolas, one so soft that Aragorn could not hear it. Her hands came to gently grasp the prince's chin, and she lifted his head. Long, pale fingers brushed away loose strands of Legolas' hair and tucked them behind his pointed ear. She rested her palm against his cheek for a moment, her gaze narrowed in concentration. The man watched, holding Legolas steady as she examined him, knowing his wife was sensing and understanding things he could not begin to fathom. Arwen carefully pulled open each of Legolas' eyelids, revealing the deep blue orbs within. They were glazed and unfocussed. Empty. Soulless.

The queen released a choked sob suddenly, leaning forward and pulling Legolas' limp body from Aragorn's arms into her own. The king sat up, alarmed at the sudden change in her demeanor. "Arwen?" She nothing, weeping quietly but desperately, holding Legolas tightly to her chest and lowering her face. "What is it?" Aragorn asked, fear and concern filling his tone. "What is wrong?"

Arwen did not answer for a long time, rocking gently as she held Legolas' still form in her arms, clinging to him as though frantic to renounce some end she now knew to be true. Aragorn watched, helplessness hurting him, his mind lost and fearful. Rarely was his wife this riled. Rarely did she cry with such utter despair, and it terrified him. But he did not push her, waiting instead for her to calm enough to speak. Perhaps she had merely let the pain touch her heart. Through these long months, she had been the silent one, strong and enduring, weathering the despair of others while never herself indulging in her grief. Perhaps now she was merely succumbing and permitting pent-up pain to escape.

When she began to speak in a quivering tone, he knew it was nothing so simple. "I feel it, Aragorn," she whispered, her eyes empty as she stroked the locks of Legolas' hair that had fallen free from the binding about the flaxen mass. Her pale cheeks glistened with tears. "I know it."

Afraid of the answer, softly he questioned, "Know what?"

Her beautiful face contorted with grief. "He is gone." Her eyes were filled with tears, with the very depths of her sadness. "Last night a dream came to me. I… I was standing upon a long beach, and the gray ocean spread before me, as infinite and deep as the sky. The sand was cold beneath my feet, and the wind was ripping across me. For a long moment, I believed that I was alone, as I called but only the waves lapping against the shore answered my words. There was no place to turn, no way to walk. Cold. Empty. There was nothing." She drew a slow breath, holding his gaze, never blinking. He resisted the urge to look away; the intensity he saw in her frightened him. She spoke again, slower, her words deliberate and disturbing. "As I watched the water, though, the sky turned dark. A storm arrived upon the shore, violent and hateful, and I was nearly lost in its tempest. Terrified, I ran, but the beach never ended, never changed, never delivered me to salvation. A pain came to me, alien and horrible, and I collapsed. It was then, as I lay on the sand, shivering and suffering, that I realized this pain was not mine. It was Legolas'."

Aragorn found he could hardly breathe for the hurt she radiated. "I opened my eyes," she whispered, pale and unmoving, "and in my waking sleep I saw him. The storm was gone, the black sky gray and peaceful once more, but the land wept and wailed for what it had experienced. He stood at the water's edge, gazing out over the expanse of the sea, tears upon his face and untold despair in his eyes. I called to him, I screamed his name, but my voice was lost to the wind, and he never turned. He began to walk, wading out into the water, each step a slow and torturous trial. Then the sea rose in a terrible wave, and… he was gone."

The words left his mouth before he could even think to speak, his heart instinctively seeking to assure both her and himself that this perturbing vision was not real. "It was only a dream, Arwen."

"Dreams have proven true before," she murmured, shaking her head slightly as though she was struggling to believe in his shallow solace. Aragorn watched as the clear tears dripped down her face, glittering like diamonds in the sun. The tension between them amplified, squeezing his heart, and the heat of the day was suddenly suffocating him. She composed herself, the sobs fading to slow, weary breathing. "It is time, Estel."

Her soft words were louder than the shrillest scream. His eyes widened. Immediately he knew what she meant, but he could not force his wailing heart to accept it. "What are you saying?"

Her hand left Legolas' shoulder to grasp his fingers. "We must let him go," she declared softly but firmly. The quiet tone of her voice belied the horrible implications of what she was telling him. Aragorn recoiled, pulling away from her and standing, shock and horror rushing over him in nauseating waves. Arwen's eyes shone in apology and grief, tears making them twinkle brightly. "It is over."

For a long while, Aragorn could not speak. He simply had not the mind to make sense of it. Vaguely he knew he had expected this, though not from her. He had been dreading this moment in the deep places of his soul where the coldness of logic prevailed. And now, with the reality before him, that truth exploded from the dark crevices where it had once resided. It consumed him, and his only defense was denial. "I will not," he hissed, shaking his head, his face pale and his eyes lost in a storm of emotion. "I will not do that to him!"

"We cannot reach him, Estel," Arwen insisted. Despite his outburst of fiery anger, she was compassionate and steady, as though immune to the pain her words had created. "He is gone. We hold him now. We call to him, cry for him, care for his body, but he knows none of it. He knows nothing. Perhaps his body yet draws breath, but he is dead."

"No!" he moaned angrily. He did not want to hear this! "That is not so!"

Her voice then wavered, though whether the pain was borne from what she spoke or the anguish she heard in her husband's tone was not clear. It was then she spoke the most damning evidence, that which he had noticed himself and ignored for the sake of his sanity. "You see it as well as I. He is fading. His body is withering." Hot tears burned Aragorn's eyes, and he squeezed them shut, refusing to accept this. But it was stark and plain before his eyes. The lost weight. The dull pallor. He stared at Legolas' body in his wife's arm, the tears blurring the sight, and he realized he knew it, too. There was no hope.

His spirit raged against the conclusion, though, and tears sprung to his eyes. Hot tears of grief. Painful tears of defeat. "How can you say this?" he demanded, hearing the anger in his tone and knowing it to be irrational and selfish but caring not. "He is our friend, our brother! He has ever supported us!  _How can you say this?_ "

Arwen was unfazed by the horrible weight of his fury. Minutely did her grip on Legolas tighten, and Aragorn knew he had hurt her with his callous words. Yet she had hurt him more. She had stabbed him with the truth, and she was allowing him to bleed by refusing to be dissuaded. "Because I love him," she declared quietly, never turning her eyes from her husband. "I do not want him to suffer any longer. I am stronger than my grief, than my anger. And though this pain crushes my spirit and steals my breath, I cannot find it within myself to let this continue." The queen dropped her eyes, and Aragorn watched as the tears languidly dripped from her face. Like a serene, slow rain, they struck Legolas, and Arwen sighed softly, holding the limp body tighter in her arms, her hands lost in his hair. "Do not think me cruel.  _Please_." Raw emotion made her usually melodic voice rough. "I say this because it must be said. I believe I do him more good than harm in saying it. I believe this will do him justice."

"Justice?" Aragorn cried incredulously. Angry disbelief burned in his eyes, and though he did not wish to funnel such a thing at his beloved wife, he could not help himself. "This is no justice!"

"It is," she insisted, "for he believes himself to be dying. Perpetually he weakens, trapped in an illusion beyond our means to reveal as false. If he wishes such a release, I no longer see it fit to deny him. He deserves his peace. He deserves the comfort Mandos offers him."

"No," Aragorn moaned. Childishly he wished to clasp his hands over his ears so he would not have to hear these words. These horrible, hateful words. These truths. Inevitable and cold, they bombarded him. "We cannot kill him!"

Arwen shook her head. He could see her heart breaking under the weight of this burden she had assumed and his own despair. He was venting it upon her, thrusting this misery unto her spirit and angrily denying her logic. And though he knew he did this, he did not have the strength to rise above the most basic of needs: the desire to see one he loved again whole. "He believes himself to be dead already, Estel. This is the nightmare the emperor put upon him, and we do not have the strength to change it. If we… if we silence the strength of his flesh, if we end his life… His spirit will be free."

The tears came unbidden, brutal and hurtful upon his cheeks. The bright, beautiful day had suddenly turned chilly and malignant. A sob escaped him, and down he fell, hitting the stone of the balcony on his knees. The jolt was hardly felt. For a long time he simply cried, for he could not find the words to express the depths of his hurt. And then, when the weeping felt weak and inadequate, he choked out, "I swore to him I would always protect him. I swore to him that I would always be his friend!"

"And you will be," Arwen softly said. "Give him this, Estel. It is so little, pale and small in the light of all he has given us. But it is all we can do for him now." Aragorn lifted his head, tears streaming from his eyes. He inched closer to his wife, desperate for comfort. Arwen smiled weakly. Aragorn laid his head upon her knees, one of his arms wrapping around her back, his other curling around Legolas. They were silent for a long time, though the tears continued in their unending river. Arwen's hand stroked the dark locks from Aragorn's face as he wept. And when she spoke, her voice was soft and filled with sadness. "I made a promise to him, as well. When the ghost of what could have been danced between us, I swore to him that I would love him always. This I eagerly offered to him. But more than this, he bade me that I take your heart and make you happy."

A bit of surprise mulled over Aragorn. He had never once, in all their long years as friends, questioned either Legolas or Arwen as to their relationship before he had come into their lives. He knew their friendship had begun long ago, and he had always realized the very depths of their devotion to each other. But it had never occurred to him that something else might have existed between them, something soft, subtle, and unrequited. It had been Legolas, after all, who had encouraged him in his decision to court Arwen. It had been Legolas who had kept her necklace safe when Aragorn had lost it after nearly dying on the road to Helm's Deep. It had been Legolas who had always offered his faith. His friend had been his most stalwart supporter, and until now, he had never paused to wonder what, again, Legolas might have sacrificed for his sake.

Arwen rested her hand on the side of his head. "He knew," she whispered faintly. "He knew before I had even begun to understand. He has never counted himself an Elf of great wisdom or foresight, but he saw this. He saw what was meant to be, and he never questioned. I was yours as you would be mine, and he… He stepped aside, and what could have been never was."

Aragorn closed his eyes, the last of his tears settling against his nose before trickling across and down his face to dampen the cloth of his wife's dress. "But to this vow I must keep. I swore to him that I would protect your heart always, and that is why I can let him go. I know he would rather I honor what has been promised than suffer for the sake of uncertainty. It is time, my love. It is time we give him what he has always given us: the courage to accept what has come to pass."

The king did not speak. The three were still for a long time, the morning sun streaming down upon them. Finally Aragorn leaned up, sniffling and brushing wet, crushed locks of hair from his face. Courage fortified him as he met his wife's teary gaze. He did not know if he had simply come to terms with what she had decided or if there were simply no tears left to cry. He did not wonder anymore. He sighed, brushing the back of his hand against her cheek, offering an unspoken apology, seeking comfort. She kissed his palm. Then Aragorn closed his eyes. "He will not suffer?"

He was a healer, and he certainly knew of many means to end a life without pain. Even more, Legolas was disconnected with his body, and he would not feel any hurt if it were to come. But he needed her assurances. He needed her strength.

"No." Her voice came within him, struggling to spread warmth and relief but failing. "He will never suffer again." He did not know if he believed her. Blindly he leaned into Legolas' side, imagining the Elf's brotherly embrace and familiar strength. Only the sun warmed his skin, and it was not as bright as Legolas. But he was too tired to dwell, to tired to wonder. A decision had been made, one that had been lingering within them all for months. Bitterness and sadness left him empty, but, as he wrapped the Elf's hands in his own, he found he could not care anymore. He was so tired. As was the wont of all things, this would pass. It was about to end. All would come crashing down, and when the moment came, he would be alone.

It was not what he had wanted, but he would accept it. He had no choice.

* * *

On the day they had chosen, it rained and rained. Some time the night before it had started, the heavy, dark clouds coalescing in the western skies, obscuring the moon's pale light and rendering the stars invisible. The ominous storm had rolled lethargically closer, and the warm air had cooled with the coming of a cold shower. There are been no dawn, at least not one worthy of any spectacle, and the rain had pummeled the White City. There was no wind, no lightning, no thunder. Just the mellow sobs of the sky as the drops struck Minas Tirith in a steady patter. The gray clouds hung low, clinging to the White Tower in a woeful embrace. The sky was empty, dark and lifeless, and the world was quiet. It was as though life everywhere had simply slowed to a halt, deadened and burdened by loss. The trees did not sing and the sky wept.

Inside the Citadel, the world was shrinking. From the wet, cold courtyard. Through the massive entrance, down the grand hallways and up ornate, white staircases. Past the statues of kings, ageless sentinels, and listless, grief-stricken servants. Ghosts roamed the halls, the stillness of the air eerie and disturbing as the tense silence gripped the manor. No one spoke. No one had the strength to attempt to fill the hungry void with words that would not heal their aching spirits. The silence was vast and deep, and falling tears fell from the sky and faces in quiet desperation. Breaths were shallow. Hearts were empty. Time would continue, of course, but for the moment there seemed to be no tomorrow, no new day, no hope for the future. How could the world be the same? How could anything ever be the same?

The soft sounds of sobbing filled Legolas' room. Aragorn stood stiffly at the balcony, his back turned to the bed, his eyes painfully dry as he stared out into the rain. The doors stood open, the cool air damp and dreary as it sucked the life and heat from the room. The rain splattered loudly on the soaked stone, the impact of each drop seemingly great and grave as it struck the unyielding rock and came apart. Tenuous, it was, these tiny forms, and when they hit they spread their substance far and wide. Gone forever. The king gritted his teeth. He would not think these things. There was time. There was time.

But there was not. He heard Pippin release a choked sob behind him, and his resolve began to waver. He did not need to look to know the scene behind him, for it had been engraved into his every thought with stunning and hurtful detail. Legolas was laying upon his bed, the linens neatly dressed and flawlessly folded beneath his still body. The Elf was still, serene, his hair brushed and braided loosely, his eyes closed, his breath slow and steady. He appeared to be at peace, his expression empty as he weathered the storms of his friends' grief. The king imagined Pippin standing beside the bed, Legolas' hand gathered into the Hobbit's own, tears flowing and whispered words filling the air. With each tiny, frantic plea, he felt another part of his heart break away. He hoped vainly, foolishly, but he hoped. Yet even these, the last and perhaps most desperate of their attempts to rouse their comatose friend, failed to elicit any response. Nothing could reach Legolas, not even final laments.

Only the closest of family gathered. Elladan and Elrohir. Merry and Pippin. Éowyn and Éomer. Gimli and Faramir. Arwen. One by one they had been allowed a private moment with the stricken Elf, each coming to sit at the bedside while the others waited silently for their turn. There was no talk. What could be said? What could any of them say? Elladan and Elrohir each stoically stood by the closed door, their faces placid and seemingly unaffected, but Aragorn knew them too well to be fooled by such a guise. Their eyes were dark and deep with their misery. Legolas, after all, had been loved by many in Rivendell, especially by Elrond's sons. Long had they been friends. Though the wood Elf was many years their junior, they were bonded, as the offspring of powerful yet waning Elven rulers, and times spent in laughter, competition, and conversation had united their spirits. Both watched the still form in the bed, their gazes veiled and their forms stiff. They radiated anger and grief in waves made all the more terrible by their apparent strength.

Éomer stood beside Aragorn, watching the rain, his face etched in anger. Though he had not been as vocal as Gimli in his refutation of Arwen's logic and Aragorn's decision, the ranger knew his friend was furious. His hazel eyes glimmered in ire, his shoulders tense and his arms crossed firmly over his chest. He had not understood their reasoning. Aragorn had seen it in Éomer's gaze, the confusion and betrayal swirling malignantly. To the young king, they were merely giving up hope. Aragorn was forced to concede that that was true. Still, he wished to believe they had decided to end Legolas' life for the Elf's benefit rather than their own. Regardless of whether Éomer could accept this reasoning, he had respected it. The young man would do no less for a friend he greatly admired. He had already spoken to Legolas' still form, holding the Elf's hand and begging quietly, painfully for forgiveness. It remained quite clear that Éomer considered himself responsible for much of what had happened. It had been his campaign at Emyn Nimsîr all those months ago. His choice. His failure. The sight of the usually confident and brave man crumbling so completely had hurt them all. And now, as was often the case, Éomer brandished anger and apathy to shield his aching heart.

Gimli rested to Aragorn's left. The stout Dwarf did not watch the rain, however. His gaze was unblinking and settled quite firmly on Legolas' pale face. Aragorn could hardly look at him, though acutely he felt the aura of misery his friend exuded. Unlike Éomer, he could not accept this. The small creature's heart simply refused, though on some level Aragorn was quite certain Gimli understood the inevitability of it all. His ruddy cheeks were damp with tears, his unbound hair heavy with the moisture laden in the chilly air. To him, this was the culmination of a horrible nightmare. It was unreal, impossible, and Aragorn comprehended this well. Legolas, the strongest of them all. Legolas, who never faltered, never rested, never let go of his courage when even the darkest of times were upon them. Legolas, who had led the Fellowship through snow and rain, who had pushed the Three Hunters across the Plains of Rohan, who had never feared for a moment when they had walked the Paths of the Dead or charged towards the Black Gate. Ageless Legolas. Powerful Legolas. How had it come to this, that this wonderful, beautiful creature, that their dearest friend, should die? No! He was meant to outlive them all. He was meant to sail to Valinor, to embrace the splendor of all his race was offered, to know a different peace. The perversion of promises ached inside the Dwarf, twisting his countenance into a vengeful scowl of disbelief. Time would heal this. Time would have to, because there was nothing else left.

Arwen was silent. She stood at the foot of the bed, watching as Pippin sobbed into Merry's shoulder. For her own part, she was reserved, but Aragorn knew her strength was a guise as well. He could feel her spirit tremble. He could feel her heart breaking. Though she had seen the truth and had the courage to acknowledge it, this moment was not less difficult for her. This was not an easy path to walk. Every ounce of the love she felt for Legolas was in her unyielding gaze. Sisterly devotion. The hint of what might have been, had things gone differently. Her long fingers curled about the wooden post of the bed, tight in their grasp, and her knuckles were as white as her face. As yet she had not cried, but she would. When it came time to administer the drink she had prepared to their unconscious friend, the one that would slowly and painlessly stop his heart, her strength would finally fade. Her hands would shake and the tears would spill from her eyes like rain from blue skies, and the very depths of her grief would be laid bare. She was not so perfect, not so composed, as to weather this horrendous moment unscathed. Elves were aloof, gifted with poise and potency of spirit that other races could only covet, yet even they were not made to endure the hardship of laying a dear friend to rest. She would lose her brother, as well, and the fear swirled in the depths of her eyes. Perhaps she did not doubt for their sake, but she was terrified of the pain that would come.

There was the sound of rustling cloth. Faramir shifted his weight again. The steward seemed distant, lost. His eyes were glazed and unfocussed. Etched unto his face was a frightened and apprehensive sense of expectance. Aragorn had not had time recently to speak closely with his friend, for since he had revealed his decision to end Legolas' life, the son of Denethor had avoided him. The king knew, even though the act hurt, it was not borne of ill will. Rather, Faramir contended yet with darker thoughts. Though they had all been marred by the events of the last winter and fall, Faramir had suffered, in some ways, as deeply as Legolas had. Only when it was all becoming a distant memory, had Aragorn realized this. Scars ran deep. Somehow Legolas' healing had become intertwined with Faramir's. Like Éomer, the steward harbored a great deal of guilt within him for what had befallen the Elf. But more than this, Faramir felt responsible for the state in which Legolas now lingered. It had been his thoughts, his examinations and conclusions, that had shaped their actions towards the end of the war. Faramir had been defeated, had fallen as Holis' prey, much as Legolas had. To have come to the end now, without Legolas, seemed the cruelest torture of all. Faramir was crushed by it, though the young lord was desperately trying not to show it. His expression was pinched. Soon, it would come to it. Aragorn knew well what Faramir was fearfully wondering. When that moment arrived, would they accept this defeat finally? Would they be able to let him go?

Éowyn sat near the desk. She was very pale, the yellow of her hair dull and limp as it fell upon her shoulders. One hand she had wrapped around her swelling belly, and the other she laid over her husband's, which rested upon her shoulder. Her face seemed made of stone for its impassiveness. Of them all, she had rarely visited Legolas since winter. A bit of anger coursed through Aragorn as he pivoted, watching the White Lady stare emptily at the two crying Hobbits. He supposed he should not have felt such a thing towards her; though many months had indeed passed, it was difficult to reach an understanding with a creature that could not respond to questions or thoughts. Some memories were slow to fade, and some wounds could not mend without the aid of harmony. She still blamed Legolas for Faramir's near fatal wounding, of that Aragorn was certain. He wondered as well if that anger had spread, if the White Lady had not found it necessary to lay all the horrible consequences of the war upon Legolas. After all, it had been Holis' lust that had driven him, and no one could certainly say how hard Legolas had struggled against what had been done to him. No matter how it was twisted, the fact remained that Legolas had attacked and nearly murdered Faramir out of vengeance. It was a difficult truth to resolve. Aragorn prayed that Éowyn would not do such a thing, that she was strong and wise enough not to succumb to such a base temptation. But pain drove them all to varying levels of irrationality and madness; he could certainly attest to that. He hoped she would forgive him now, though from the dark look in her eyes he found himself doubting.

"It's alright, Pip." Merry's quiet assurances pulled his attention from Éowyn's face, and he looked to the bed. Merry was tightly embracing his cousin, directing the hysterically sobbing Pippin from the bed. He had tears in his eyes as well, but he was bravely restraining himself for the young Took's sake. He rubbed Pippin's back, looking at Aragorn with sad, hurt eyes. The accusation was finely hidden in his gaze, but Aragorn saw it nonetheless. "It will be alright."

"How can you say that?" Pippin managed between halting breaths and gasping sobs. "It's never going to be alright!"

Merry hushed him, pulling his distraught friend closer to himself. The younger of the two Halflings dissolved into a fit of weeping and hiccoughing, leaning heavily into his cousin's embrace as Merry led him from the room. The door opened and then shut.

Silence followed, silence that was deafening and despondent. No one moved. No one even breathed. The echo of Pippin's wails had locked them all in a queer sort of stasis, one which nobody had the strength to break. Resolution wavered as the moment stretched onward towards an uncertain future. All minds raced and turned drearily and wearily with the same thoughts. Finally, someone found the bravery to voice the terrible misgiving that had wormed its way into their hearts.

"We cannot do this."

Aragorn turned, blinking shameful, burning tears from his eyes, and looked at Éowyn. Her soft declaration had resounded with the strength of thunder in the tenuous, vacuous quiet. She did not raise her head, her eyes glazed, but a single tear rolled down her pale face. She released Faramir's hand and struggled to stand. With her protruding belly, the action was harder than it seemed. However, she shrugged away the helpful grasps of Faramir and Éomer, her eyes never leaving Legolas' body. "We cannot do this to him," she said again, louder, firmer.

No one spoke for a long moment. The words hung on the still air, only the heavy, droning patter of the rain filling the void. They seemed to be teetering in this instant, swaying between a certain defeat and a fickle hope. "There is no other way." It was Elladan who quietly admitted this. The son of Elrond glanced to the small bowl of liquid that rested upon the desk, the vessel that held the drink to end Legolas' life. "We can do nothing more for him, save this."

"No!" Éowyn declared, trembling slightly as more tears fell from her eyes. "Do you not understand? We are his friends, his family! Who are we to decide this for him? Who are we to determine his destiny? We wrench his fate from the hands of a demon, cursing the man for his cruelty and conceit! But we are no better! We cannot define his life! It is not ours to end!"

Somebody released a choked sob. Aragorn did not know who, for his mind and senses were swept into a storm of conflicting emotion and thought. He was the prisoner of hope and despair, batted between them like a toy, tormented by all he wanted and what he knew to be true. He heard Elladan speak again, the Elf Lord's characteristically strong voice an utter shadow of itself. "This is not the way of our people," he softly said. "To suffer like this… Death is a freedom he deserves. It is selfish of us to manacle him to this world by a body no longer connected to a spirit. It is wrong. He will never be free if we do not do this!"

Éowyn's eyes flashed coldly. "I will not be party to it," she declared, her tone shaking with barely controlled emotion. "Think what you will, but I will say this. There are many things in this world that I do not understand, the spirit and strength of Eldar undoubtedly included. But I know Legolas. We all do. And you must tell me–" At this, her voice shook, thickening with rough emotion. "Tell me that he would want this! Tell me that he did not struggle, that he does not struggle still, to return to us! The Legolas I know and love is strong and good and pure. Never has he surrendered to aught, and though despair has touched his heart, he has always found strength in us! Must we forget that? Must we sully it with this act?" Guilt, cruel and cold, sliced through Aragorn. He was ashamed that he had forsaken these things. Ashamed that he needed to be reminded. Éowyn turned her icy eyes downward, her hands wrapped around her stomach protectively. "I know you mean well. But, please… There must be another way! We cannot let him go! If we forsake him, if we betray him, truly he will die! We are that which keeps him here, with us… for us… We always have been.  _Please_ , do  _not_ do this…"

And so it came before them again. As tired as they were, they were forced to face this moment, this decision, once more. Hearts were torn, for options were all but exhausted. Nothing had worked. Nothing, it seemed, could pierce the veil that separated their friend from them. Weariness and woe weighed upon them, and as much as Aragorn wished to believe in Éowyn's faith, he could not shake from his mind a haunting vision. Years could pass. Decades even. They would grow older, time inevitably marching onward towards their end. He saw Legolas as trapped as he was now, ageless, untouched by time. It was not a future he wished to see come to fruition. Legolas would not wish such a thing, to linger forcibly in this world when peace awaited him elsewhere. He knew his friend would not want that, either. But where, then, could they turn? What could they do?

"What must we do, my Lord?" Arwen asked. Tears dampened her cheeks as she stepped forward and laid her hand upon Éowyn's shoulder. With these words spoken by the strongest advocator of their submission, it became obvious that killing Legolas was no longer a choice. He watched her, lost and helpless, wondering what she hoped to accomplish by asking him. "What must we do?"

"There must be something," Éomer declared. "There must be! We need only look harder!"

"A book, somewhere… Holis must have learned to ways of the magic somehow…" Elrohir mused, the desperation of the moment breeding excitement in his voice.

"Perhaps a journey into the Haradwaith might be prudent," Gimli added, his tone bolstered by renewed hope. "Perhaps someone else knows of it!"

The conversation swirled around him. He tried to share in their hope, but truly he felt it to be empty and their ideas to be fruitless. They were helpless, clawing endlessly in the dark for an escape that would not be found. Aragorn lifted watery gaze and found Faramir's gaze. The steward seemed to realize this as well, for his eyes held no light, no optimism. They were the two most abused by fate, and they understood well the lies hope could often tell. Aragorn did not again want to know that pain.

But all the beauty and value in life came with risk. Holis had said that. And to not trust, to not believe, was to not live at all. Providence gave as it took. He had forgotten that, as well.

So when the world changed, when it suddenly and with great force blasted open and flew away from its crushing grip around him, he could not help but look. It began as a small tickling upon his senses. The rain had stopped, though when he could not say, but he noted the hum of its mournful whisper upon the balcony had ceased. Then he felt warmth upon him, washing his previously cold, dampened back with tender heat. He heard a cry. Shrill and proud. Deep.

Gulls.

He turned suddenly and looked behind him. Indeed the deluge had ended, and the dark, heavy clouds had parted. The setting sun streamed through them now, setting them ablaze with light, its long rays reaching towards the balcony to wash them in pure and stunning gold. And then he saw the birds. He stepped outside slightly, transfixed as the white gulls soared upon invisible currents. One shrieked again, bantering to its mate as they rose higher and higher. It was strange to see the birds this far north. They were pale and pretty against the dark gray of the looming clouds. Wild. Free.

And suddenly he knew. Voices filled him. Arwen. Faramir and Legolas and Gimli. Elrond, explaining something he did not understand to him when he had been only a young boy.  _"It is the one thing that binds all Elves together. It is our common fate, our lasting love: the sea."_

" _The sea calls to him like a mother does her son to her warm bosom."_

" _I have never seen the ocean, Estel. Perhaps one day I shall."_

" _Legolas Greenleaf, long under a tree. In joy hast thou lived; beware of the sea!"_

" _You cannot leave, Legolas. I need you."_

" _Then the sea rose in a terrible wave, and he was gone."_

" _Alas for the sea!"_

_The sea!_

It jolted through him like lightning. His eyes widened, and his heart began to beat quickly. He suddenly could not find his breath. Perhaps they could not reach Legolas. Perhaps their voices, their touches, their  _love_  was simply not strong enough to break through the prison and free the Elf. But there was something that could, something so powerful, so distinctly Elvish in nature, that Legolas would not be able to deny it. It was a calling grander than any. It was a fate beyond that which Holis had forced upon him. He would fight for it, free himself for it, as it would beckon him to embrace the world as nothing else would. It would draw him from the shadows. It would claim him again.

The sea. Of course! How could he have been so blind?

There was no more reason to ponder. Hope filled him, hope brighter and hotter than any he had before known, and he smiled, unable to catch his breath.  _This is right. I know it. I know it!_  "We make for Dol Amroth," he declared suddenly to the surprise of all present, his voice twisted in excitement and elation. He turned, rushing to the door to make preparations for a hasty departure. "Come. It is our last hope, but it will be the one that avails us. I am certain of it. We can get him back. Praise the Valar! I know how we can save him!"

* * *

The gray ship sailed south upon the River Anduin. The blue waters were clear and fresh, fed still by the mountainous, melting snows of the north. They rushed through the land, carrying with them the last hope of a desperate time. From the rebuilt docks at Osgiliath the grand vessel left her berth. Upon her mast, the banner of the White Tree flapped in the salty breeze. The winds were favorable. They would make good time.

Still, those upon the ship felt every moment spent traveling, spent waiting, was a moment wasted. Tension filled them, ripping from them any semblance of rest or peace. Hearts were hinged upon this last effort. Aragorn had told them of his premonition, and no one had had the courage to doubt his thoughts for truth. Each of them was as frantic as he to see this moment succeed and Legolas restored, fearing now nothing so much as the decision that had fortunately again been put aside. This journey had inexplicably assumed a great meaning, for now it carried the wishes of them all to the sea. Those that had stayed behind had done so unwillingly. Éowyn was drawing too close to her time to travel, and she had remained, sending with them her renewed love. With her, Arwen had stood, speaking not but exuding an aura of utter hopefulness. No one else, though, could chain himself to Minas Tirith. Perhaps it was unwise to allow both the steward and king to leave their country simultaneously, as thoughts of the last war and near disaster still lingered. But this moment would not be denied, and Éowyn had insisted Faramir accompany Aragorn.  _"The child will wait,"_  she had promised.

So the three men, two Hobbits, one Dwarf, and two Elves had borne their ailing friend to the river. With them went a slew of guards, each soldier keenly aware of what this final quest meant to those participating in it. As the ship sailed, few words were spoken. Nothing could be said to ease the fear, faith, and anxiety claiming them all. They had chosen this route, firstly, because traveling by horse would have been slower and more difficult. But more than this, they had left Minas Tirith and sought the blue waters of the Anduin in hopes that the mere presence of the river, with its lapping waves and gentle scents, with the gulls leading them to the ocean, would aid their friend. Unfortunately, this was not so, but none of them could admit the growing fear that this would not help them. The closer they drew to the sea, the harder the mounting despair pulled. Legolas was as still and unaffected as he was in the White City, and now amount of Aragorn's coaxing, of Faramir's demands and Gimli's angry yells, of Éomer's hopes and the Hobbits' laughter, seemed to do any good.

They could not be wrong about this! Surely, they could not be!

And so they came to Dol Amroth, hopeful still but increasingly afraid they had been mistaken. The city by the sea was forlorn, burdened still by the loss of one of its sons. The ship had moored in the harbor, a crowd of people forming upon the dock, whispering their concern and surprise to see such a strange crew as men of great power and small Hobbits exit the vessel. Legolas had been carried on a pallet by the soldiers, and as the precession had quickly made its way through the bustling city, the gathered folk lowered their eyes and whispered prayers. Even here, as far as this was from Minas Tirith, they knew of the Elf's sacrifice. The air had been stiff and heavy, leaden with the gravity of this final chance, a quiet permeating the air that was teetering towards the heavy silence of mourning. Imrahil had emerged from his manor to greet them, confused at their unexpected visit. Aragorn had quickly explained, and the prince had joined in the last few steps of their journey to the sea.

The beach spread before him, long and white, stretching from side to side as far as Aragorn could see. The day was warm enough, though the sky was veiled in soft, lavender clouds. Sunset was approaching, bringing warm breezes from the waters beyond that rushed upon the shore and sent the tall, green reeds whispering as they rolled in the wind. The king sighed, his heart fluttering nervously, every muscle in his body clenched with days of anticipation. The sea. Finally he stood before it, and it was magnificent. The waning daylight had turned the waters silver and gray. The waves broke gently upon the shore, hushed in their advance, and the gentle lull of their song was soothing. He breathed deeply, the air warm and sweet, smelling of sea spray, and the breeze brushed tender fingers through his hair. He felt tears prick his eyes. Long had he journeyed. Though the trip from Minas Tirith to this point had not been lengthy at all, he felt as though he now stood at the cusp of a seemingly endless road. He could not see beyond this, but as he watched the ocean gently bathe the world, he prayed his next step would prove fortunate.

"This is not working." Elladan's soft declaration drew him from his thoughts. The son of Elrond was not looking towards the water. In fact, both he and his twin were making a pointed effort to focus on Legolas, their expressions pinched and fearful. Aragorn's heart ached for what they were enduring to possibly see their friend reanimated. Elladan shook his head. "We are too late."

Aragorn looked to Legolas' limp form. The twins held him as they knelt upon the sand, the archer's head lolling limply back upon Elrohir's shoulder. Merry and Pippin stood above them, both close to tears as they looked at the yet comatose Elf. Éomer closed his eyes against the pain, his hands dropping to the shoulders of the forlorn Hobbits. Faramir tipped back his head, looking to the pale sky. The wind ruffled his sandy hair, and Aragorn saw a tear's trail upon his cheek. Imrahil turned, whispering words that the wind stole from them, casting his gaze out onto the melancholic ocean. The wind whistled, and it was silent.

The king's gaze fell to his dearest friend. His eyes remained closed, ringed darkness, dark lashes pressed firmly and stubbornly to pale skin. The wind swept by them, sending the mass of his loose, blond hair dancing in its invisible embraces. Still he remained, serene, his breath weakly rattling from his chest. As lost as ever. This could not be!

Rage and grief welled up in the ranger, hotter and heavier than he could fathom, and he staggered towards the group resting upon the soft sand. A sob escaped his lips. "No!" he declared assertively, falling to his knees before them. "No! This is not right!" How fickle he was! Mere days ago he had been ready to end Legolas' life by his own hand, and now he could not bear to let this last hope die. It had clung to him, claiming his heart, and with its demise so would his own spirit suffer.

Elladan's sigh was long and quivering with anguish. His hand reached forth to cover Aragorn's firmly, offering some means of ragged comfort. But Aragorn would not let his fury be quelled and he would not accept this. He would not! For the sake of his hurting heart, of his dying soul, he would not!

He pushed their hands aside and took Legolas' form into his arms. The twins did not struggle, watching him with sadness and sympathy but doing nothing to stop this madness. The king staggered to his feet, finding the impending grief to have drawn the life from his limbs. His knees threatened to buckle, and he could not breathe. Everything grew blurry as stinging tears filled his eyes. Still, he did not succumb. He cradled Legolas' body tighter as he fought against the wind, against the despair, against the last of the barriers between their straining spirits. Through the sand he walked, wavering as the grief battered him, as the breeze shook him. But he reached the water.

It was cool and soft to his skin as he stepped into it, the clear liquid seeping through his fine clothes instantly to caress his flesh. He splashed as he fought through the waves, refusing to be deterred. Deep inside, he was beginning to understand that this was futile, that even the call of the sea could not return Legolas to his life, that his brother was truly and irrecoverably gone from him. Deep inside, he was coming to know this beyond any refutation, beyond any hope, the creeping sense of defeat growing into an undeniably reality. But his heart could not be swayed. It was too tightly linked with Legolas', too completely bonded to permit this final hope to be so cruelly and quickly ripped from his greedy fingers.

The water covered him to his waist as he walked, never stumbling and never looking back. The sea met the sky ahead, the liquid glass melding with the pale pallor of the clouds. Beyond this, Valinor awaited. White shores. Endless peace. Paradise. It was the destiny of all Elves, to see this place and know its wonders, to be forever contented in the splendor of the Undying Lands. Bitterness stole his breath, and he choked as he fought and stumbled through the waves. Legolas should not have been denied this! No other deserved rest more keenly than he. No other warranted a life of such unending beauty. He belonged there, with his father and brothers and friends. He belonged among his people.  _I will take him there,_  Aragorn thought without reason or reservation. It was for his sake his friend had forsaken his immortal destiny. It was for his love, for his happiness, for his wars and plans and dreams. This was the least he could do!  _I will take him, even as the world darkens and naught is left beautiful, and I will walk through this water into the West and see the white shores… I will save him. I will save him!_

But he could never do such a thing. He was but a man, a weak, selfish man, and the damage had already been done. Ludicrous hopes were meaningless, the substance upon which his kind often blindly and foolishly feasted. He knew, beyond any doubt, that it was over, that there was nothing more to be done. He knew this, and when he began to believe it, his world faded.

Aragorn cried. He cried harder and deeper than he ever had before. Tears spilled from tortured eyes, each breath expelling from his chest a heavy sob that spoke of the very depths of his turmoil. He spilled every ounce of his grief and anger and love into these choked moments, screaming his misery, pleading unabashedly with every ounce of his being that the powers that were did something to change this horrible fate. But they were not kind, the forces that governed the punishments of life, and he was left, cold and empty and wet, trapped in this consequence of a thousand moments taken for granted. There was no escape. There was nothing he could do to right this awful wrong. His soul was split, shattered fully, and part of him was dying. And he was helpless.

Eventually exhaustion softened the pain. His weeping quieted, his screams fading with him, and fatigue spread over his aching body. The waters, as warm as they were with summer's graces, had turned cold and unyielding to his form. He drew a ragged breath, an eerie calm coming to his heart. Perhaps it was borne from this place, from the sea and its majesty. Perhaps it had manifested itself through the very limits of human suffering, and those depths, having been surpassed, permitted no greater anguish than that already bestowed. Whatever the case, the fury faded, and he was free from it.

He looked down. "Legolas," he said softly. The Elf he cradled against him, tucking the archer's head to his breast and vehemently yearning for his friend to hear the beating of his aching heart. For a long moment he stood there, holding his friend as the waves rose and fell, as his chest rose and fell, as his heart sank. Then he opened his arms, and the Elf was pulled onto his back. The water set his skin aglow, the strands of his flaxen hair spread beneath him, as Aragorn lightly supported him. The prince floated, caressed and loved by the sea. It would care for him now. In its deep, watery embraces, it would cherish him.

There were no words to say. There was nothing now, only the promised moment, only this last act. To offer peace. To know the truth. To part with a dream finally and see the world for what it was. The man sighed slowly, the cleansing breath pushing away the muck from his shivering soul. "Be at peace," he implored softly, sweeping his hand over his friend's still, empty face. He smiled. "My brother." And then he let Legolas go.

The gulls cried overhead, the very gulls that had led them to this place, to this time. Aragorn watched his friend as the waters rose above him and drew him down, his fingers lightly grasping still those of the Elf. The pale light faded beneath the silver glass, descending into the darkness, and the sea rose, taking its child to its bosom.

The king looked up and saw the birds soaring. Against the gray sky they were so white. Beautiful. Breathtaking. Tears rolled slowly down his cheeks. The sun crept among the clouds, wearily appearing to cast a soft glow upon the ocean. The waves rolled gently against him, pushing him back. This was no longer his place. He knew it now, and he had been given the strength to accept it.

So he turned, facing what lay behind him and what lay ahead. And he would have returned to it were it not for the whisper in the wind that gave him pause. He looked back towards the horizon, watching the sun spill over the parting veil of gray. The birds sang. He did not understand, but he reached forth his hand beneath the surface of the water.

Fingers found his again, tightening slowly in their grasp, and the world changed. He knew. He should never have doubted at all.

"Legolas…"


	44. His Quietus Make

**PART FOUR**

_To be, or not to be — that is the question:_  
_Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer_  
_The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune_  
_Or to take arms against a sea of troubles_  
_And by opposing end them._

—  _William Shakespeare,_ Hamlet _, Act III.1_

_Come now, my son. Rest. You need suffer no longer. Come and find peace._

And the rest was silence.

But this was a silence not meant to endure, for as he rose with the wind and raced towards the beautiful and bright sun, he began to realize that this was not right. He felt still, his senses feeding his mind with perceptions he found difficult to renounce. The warmth of the daylight upon him. Aragorn's firm chest behind him, the king's arm draped around his withering body, his hand pressed to his heart. Gimli beside him, the Dwarf's fingers intertwined with his own, his eyes wide and wondering. The blanket draped over them. The gentle wind. The colors. The life leaving his body. The change he felt within him. The voice he heard on the wind. His mother's voice.

Still, as he sat there and waited for the final breath of his life to come, a strange feeling came to him. It began as a tickle upon his mind, a lazy, troublesome thought that drifted about his memories and emotions, eluding his attention. Eventually, intrigued by this irksome sensation that was intruding upon this moment and besmirching this promised peace, he grasped it, wishing to understand it. This proved to be a terrible mistake, for as he held to this creeping, ominous sense of wrongness, it in turn grasped him. The soft sense of foreboding exploded into a violent, crushing force, and he could no longer deny it.

It washed over him, filling him, drowning him, and everything faded.  _This is wrong,_  came a sudden thought in his overthrown mind. The warm sun turned cold and dark. Aragorn's strong arms were weak. Gimli's hand left his. Something inside him ached in agonizing fury, and the words repeated. The mantra grew louder and louder, shattering the silence, consuming him hungrily until all he heard, thought, knew, was nothing else.  _This is wrong. This is wrong. This is wrong!_

_No!_

And nothing was the same. He screamed, the sound of his misery filling the lengths and depths of the world as he was forcibly wrenched from the comfort of that balcony, of that place, of his friend's arms and the looming peace of eternal slumber. He did not want to leave this! He did not understand! His thoughts were torn apart, his mind sundered and broken, as the world bled angrily around him. He tried to anchor himself, but it happened so quickly, so violently, that he was lost and helpless. He was cold and naked, bound to this harrowing notion that nothing he knew was true, and it catapulted him from the warmth of the sun into darkness. From the ragged mess of his memories and thoughts, a notion occurred to him. Perhaps… perhaps this was simply what it was to die.

But he struck something hard, and he knew that was not true. Pain rushed over him, spreading across his body in a wildfire that tore from him any semblance of sanity. He began to feel again, his disoriented senses slow to form a cohesive picture of the myriad experiences. He felt something rough and hot. Stone against his body. He tasted blood. He knew pain. Where was he? What had happened to him?

The bits of two lives slammed back together inside him, and the hurt from it all left him reeling. Two realities that were completely incongruous warred with each other, he heard himself howling. Minas Tirith. His room. Fethra and Gimli. Éowyn and Arwen. Aragorn. Was this not real? The terrible poison that had ate away at his body, that had torn his life apart and left him to die slowly in his bed and surrounded by helpless, sorrowful eyes… His lasting descent. Was that not real?

Somebody was behind him, pressing his bare flesh to the rough wall, caring not that the stone poked into his aching, bloodied form. He saw swirling red and shadow. Familiar hands drifted down his sides, painfully scraping through raw, open wounds and tightly grabbing his hips and pulling him back. He cried. Fingers tangled into his hair, yanking back on his head, and he saw darkness above him, darkness made wet and blurry by tears. This could not be real! He was dreaming again! He could not be back there, in that awful place, trapped and tortured… raped.

A warm breath tickled the nape of his neck, and following it was the disgusting press of lips. He heard a voice, and his blood ran cold. His heart stopped its frantic pace. "You are mine, Legolas." It hissed in his ear, and he knew it. He  _knew_  it.

"Aragorn, please…" he whimpered.

"And I will have you!"

And when the pain came, he was gone again, gone from that nightmare, twisted and turned about and shoved forward in a foreign ride of sensation. Time did not exist in this strange marriage of dream and reality. He was seemingly living both lives, suffering simultaneously in two torments, each horribly different but united by pain and terror. He was in his bed, weak and weary, begging his friend to end the pain. He was pressed against the wall, bloodied and naked, begging his friend not to hurt him. Neither could be reconciled, and for a long time, he simply lingered between them, in them both. He felt sadness unending, and fury and hatred coursed over him. He was lost in these two realities, nameless, soulless, hopeless. Empty. No, not empty, for even that void would be a pleasing state. He was wretched. He was consumed with rage. Like the sun it blinded him, burned him, and he nearly recoiled for the might of the anger he felt. It spilled from him in horrible waves, rushing from his hurting heart. He had been betrayed! He had spoken of the danger, and he had been ignored. He had despaired, and he had been castigated. He had been wounded, and they had let him go. And for what? To draw pleasure from his body as blood was drawn from his flesh? To dominate him?

His friends would  _never_  do such a thing!

He did not understand. He did not know what was real. He was drowning in his misery, nauseatingly imprisoned by these two very different yet dreadfully vivid worlds. He felt the sun drying tears upon his face, Aragorn's arm across his chest, Gimli squeezing his hand… the life draining from a weary, ill body. Yet he felt chains about his wrists and tasted blood upon his tongue, the stone wall before him and a horrible demon behind him, hurting him… his soul fleeing from a tortured husk. And he himself was lost. He knew not what to trust, what to believe, and his overwhelmed mind simply cracked.

He screamed, his twisted voice rising above the din of a thousand memories that seemed not his own. And when it did, when he collapsed as his cry pierced the prison, it all disappeared. The rage burning him was gone, and he was alone.

Alone. Terribly alone.

The blackness was all around him, vast, endless, and empty. The void opened its chilly embraces, drawing him deeper into its inky swells, and he fell. Down he tumbled, his heart still, his lungs empty and unmoving, his eyes closed and his spirit lost. The comfort of oblivion spread before him, lulling and calming, the abyss fathomless. There was no sound, no light, no pain or fear. He could simply let go, and he would never have to hurt again. Time did not exist, though it hardly had before with the blur of all the memories rushing upon him. Yet here minutes did not pass, and his heart did not beat. There was no cause to act, think, to face the chaos and anguish he had left behind him. There was no reason to live at all, really. And he sank down into this abyss, a prisoner once more to a world not his own, but this time he willingly surrendered himself. There was nothing worthy left, really, for which to fight.

A different silence came upon him. Though as deep and unyielding as that of before, this one crushed what remained of him into a fearful stupor. He had tasted the world beyond the edges of this shadow. He knew what lay beyond the boundaries of this place, and he did not want to face it for its ugliness. Already he was so battered, so torn and tormented, and so very tired. He did not have the strength to weather the tumultuous, agonizing whims of a world that no longer opened its heart to him. He was not so brave. So he lingered in the quiet, in this place without thought and time. He might have wished to struggle, but he had no will. It was taken from him, molded into something he did not understand, and he could not face the trial to reclaim it.

Yet this silence as well was not meant to last. Eventually a sound pierced the deafening roar of the quiet. Faint it was at first, and he could barely perceive it. It played along the edges of his conquered consciousness, teasing him as before that wretched sense of foreboding had done. Where his heart still dwindled, he cursed this foreign sensation, casting it aside and ignoring it, drawing deeper into him. When last he had indulged the call of the outside world, he had been ripped from the comfort of reality and thrust into the perversion of another. A queer thing, really, to consider the coming of death to be a comfort! But he had gladly resigned himself to it, and he would do so again without question to avoid the shame and pain he knew to lie beyond the shadows. He not once more let go of this peace! He had been tricked before, and he would never face that which had brutalized him! And he would certainly not appease the wishes of who had brutalized him…

But this sound could not be ignored. Louder it grew, ringing through the quiet until the silence was no more. He fought against it, drawing tighter into himself, refusing to heed its call for terror of what he might face if he did. It would  _not_  be denied, this piercing cry, and it took him, wrapping itself about him as it consumed the abyss, and hauled him towards the edges of the black. Panic was all he knew, panic and misery, and he clawed and cried and struggled to stop himself. Had he not suffered enough? Closer the edge came, closer and closer, and he wailed his defeat as light exploded around him.

As violent as the transformation was, the moment that followed heralded a peculiar serenity.

Flabbergasted and frightened, he looked wildly about him. This was neither a cell nor a bed, and neither chains nor sickness fettered him. Waves of glittering silver spread before him, wider and vaster than anything he had ever seen. Like a field of glimmering glass, the surface reached towards the horizon, and the pale, ethereal light of the sun washed it in a white gleam. He felt sand beneath his toes, and he wriggled them, the simple sensation of the soft substance leaving him reeling. The wind brushed against his face and hair, and he smelled fresh air and the tang of salt. That sound, that wretched sound, was the cry of gull flying above him, its white body nearly lost in a show of pale clouds. Waves lapped against the beach, and all was beautiful.

_The sea._

"Legolas?"

He turned, believing he should have been startled by the sound but finding that fear or dread had no place in his heart. He was not alone upon this long, white shore, but that did not disturb him. He felt a familiar presence, a distinct aura, wash over him, caressing his spirit with a loving tenderness he thought long dead. And when his eyes fell upon his visitor, he did not know surprise. It seemed to his weary mind that this person had always been there, somehow. It felt  _right_  to see her.

She stepped closer, the wind sending the long skirts of her white dress flowing about her pale feet as they traversed the distance between them. Her long, blonde hair danced in the breeze, and her deep, blue eyes shone with unshed tears. She smiled and opened her arms to him, and something inside him began to throb. All of the pain, the fear, the torment and confusion abruptly became too much to bear. This was no silence, no cold, false comfort. This was real. His spirit begged for release, and he was too weak to fight anymore.

He fell into her embrace, burying his head against her shoulder. She hugged him firmly, wrapping her arms around his quivering form. He wept, her warmth enveloping him and dissolving all that remained of his reservation. The tears came and came, streaming down his face as the waves lapped against the shore, and she caressed his hair compassionately. She was as he remembered her, soft yet strong, smelling of leaves and flowers. Her voice filled him, a sweet melody he recalled from his youth. "It is alright," she said quietly. He felt her lips press against his head. "It will be alright now."

Oh, how he wished to believe her! She had always been there for him, caring for every malady, small or large, in his life. She had bandaged skinned knees and kissed away his tears. She had held him through nightmares. Perhaps those had been the mere calamities of a small child, but she was his mother. He craved her comfort as he did air and life and freedom. And he was willing to put his shattered faith in her promises to assuage the pain.

He cried, moments escaping them, only the rolling waves rhythmic crash upon the shore telling them of the time lost. He cried until there felt to be no tears left within him and no strength to expel this horrible hurt from his broken spirit. Exhaustion bid him to quiet, and he did, breathing deeply and closing his eyes. Neither moved or spoke, allowing this moment to exist purely for the sake of love and release. And though he wished for nothing so much as to stay here in this heavenly place with her arms about him to soothe his pain, he was beginning to realize that this, like the dreams he had before left, was no more real and no more lasting.

And she confirmed his fear. "You cannot stay here, my son," she declared. He leaned back from her shoulder, raising his eyes tiredly to look into hers. Though he had suspected such a thing, despair and dejection swept over him. Her beautiful visage, calm and bright, radiated with a peace he longed to know. Her hands rose, her elegant fingers cool and gentle as she cupped his face. They felt too pure for his heated skin. Her thumb swept across his cheek, wiping away the last of his tears. "This is not your place."

"Nor is it yours," he whispered, "yet you have come, all the same."

She smiled tenderly, and a light danced in her eyes. "You need not dwell in darkness."

"You called to me." He remembered her voice upon the winds of what he once thought real, racing towards balcony in a white city. Previously perfectly vivid, that life had grown hazy and indistinct, but he knew he heard her whisper to him, beckoning him to death, or so he had thought. "When I laid in the last moments, I… I heard your voice." His eyes slipped shut in renewed frustration and despair. "I do not know if it was real, or if you now stand before me in truth. I no longer am certain of anything, save that I cannot go back to them."

"And why should you believe such a thing?" she asked. The question held no malice, no disappointment, no pressure to provide an adequate justification.

He did not open his eyes. Suddenly he felt horrible, foul and unfit for her love. He turned, misery tightening its grasp upon his floundering will. "I reek of the shadow. I am tainted."

She did not answer. She was not so cruel as to dismiss reality for its harshness or to offer empty assurances that what he did know would prove false. In this place, in this time, things became clear to him. It was a grotesque sort of understanding. He looked beyond the edges of the shore and saw the shadows creeping. This was no utopia, really, but an island in a black torrent of anguish. He knew, inexplicably and undeniably, what he had done. Only the peace of the sea and his mother's presence afforded him the strength to accept the violence and betrayal to which he had been subjected and, in turn, to which he had subjected his friends. He saw a rainy courtyard and felt his great bow humming with murderous power in his hands. He held flesh choked beneath his fingers. He felt the resistance of a blade stabbing deeply into skin and muscle and blood, sticky and hot, covering his hands. He even knew the pain of that same knife cutting into his vulnerable belly. He  _knew_  these things. Here, everything was apparent to him, and he saw he truly was nothing more than a monster driven by the very rage he had come here to escape.

He had tried to kill himself because, on some level, a part of him had always been in this place where everything was unveiled and truths were seen for what they were. Part of him had always fought against the lie that was his death and the nightmare that was the illusion put upon him as he had been tortured. But that part had never been strong enough. And now that he was here in whole, that all of him stood upon these shores and saw this all so clearly, he wished desperately to simply die.

"A moment comes to you now," she said finally, drawing him from his thoughts. He opened his eyes and watching the sea churn in its endless fury. Her tone seemed different to his ears, even and detached. "You stand here in this place, in this time, on the cusp of a weighty decision. You can either go back to the world from which you were stolen and face the torment of all that was left behind, or you can turn your eyes away and leave this Middle Earth and its people. Mandos waits for you, and there your spirit will be healed and cleansed. The shadow dare not follow you to his halls. This is your choice."

He was silent. Somehow, he had known this as well, but he could not deny the storm of emotion that swirled inside him and battered his heart. Fear was overcoming everything he loved and held dear. "I cannot face them." He heard himself whisper this, his mind gone from him, crushed by the gravity of what she proposed.

"Then you will die." The way she spoke those simple words, so calmly and softly, made his heart ache. It was not meant to seem a defeat, but the mere announcement of them had forced it before his eyes. He could not look away. It was not meant to seem a weakness, a failing, and yet he could not deny those feelings that it stirred within him. Her sigh was as the gentle wind brushing through his body. "And you will find your peace in the Halls of Waiting."

The finality came too quickly, too awkwardly. So easily she accepted this hasty decision, and the mere fact of that deprived him of his confidence. He turned then, casting his eyes upon her. His shivering soul reached towards her, seeking her approval. He felt as though he had disappointed her, and that pained him greatly. "Do you think me a coward?" he asked timidly.

She seemed to have been gazing behind him, for the soft glow of her eyes shifted to settle on his expectant face. "You are of my flesh," she answered, "and I love you. It is not my place to pass judgment upon you."

The answer did not sate him. "Would Father?"

For a long, quiet moment, she did not answer him. Everything inexorably became linked to this simple question, and he waited, tense and afraid of a response he was desperate to hear. He held himself taut, wishing not to permit his wretched form to tremble. If ever he had sought acceptance, he did so now. His father was gone from him, safe and at peace in Valinor, but ever was he a presence. The echo of final arguments, of lasting grief and anger, of their tattered relationship filled him. He wished then that he had not been so stubborn, that he had abided by his father's wishes. He had been right, after all, to say that staying in Middle Earth against the tide of destiny would destroy his son. How he wished to change this! How he wished to go back to that moment and set aside all he had once favored for the sake of their broken bond! Always had their relationship suffered for a king's lack of faith in his prince and a son's lack of understanding for his father. Always had they been separated by bitterness and differing hearts. He had believed that one day, when the time truly came for him to sail to the Undying Lands, he and his sire would make their amends. Their arguments and anger would prove moot when they were reunited again in the splendor of Valinor.

But now it seemed that would never happen, and he was afraid his father would forever remember their final disagreement, the hurtful words and frustration. He had thought the edict extreme; it was but a few years that he would remain with his mortal friends, and a few years were but drops in an endless sea of life for their kind. Surely his father could not be so selfish! But he had been selfish, too, and blind to the future. Young and naïve. A child, truly. Torn he had claimed to be, between his father's commands to leave and his heart's desire to stay. But he had never been torn. There had never been a choice. He could not leave those he loved on Middle Earth. Only when the years of their mortal lives were utterly spent would his spirit be free to leave this world. And he had forsaken the love of his father for this belief. He had never even pondered the act. He had simply done it.

Ai, this hurt was terrible! He wished to clutch at his heart for its miserable pounding. His mother simply watched him as he buckled. And when he thought all to be lost, she smiled again and walked to him. "Oh, my little leaf," she said, taking his hand in hers and brush her fingers against his cheek once more. "You are your father's son. Though at times you doubt, you are of his heart, his spirit, his strength. He loves you as you love him, and that is a constant that stretches across the darkest of oceans. You are made of his power, and he is proud of you. You did not see, but he always has been. He will wait for you, Legolas, and he will never fault you for bearing what you have for the sake of those you cherish. There is fire in you both that oft competes, but upon the same kindling it burns. Never forget that even a prince has a father, and even a king has a son. You are what you make yourself, and you are built strong upon the foundation of his love."

Her words freed tears from his eyes. His face twisted into a tenuous smile at her words, and his heart grew in his chest, filled with emotion to the point where he feared it might simply burst. She watched him as knowingly as she always had. "No more tears for this moment. Let not your heart be troubled. Go to them, little leaf. This is not your place and not your time. You know this. You always have. You will see the white shores, and when you do, you will be at peace."

She drew him tightly against her. He buried his face into the warmth of her shoulder once more, wishing for this moment to continue forever. "The road ahead of you is dark," she quietly said, "and it will not be easy to walk upon it. What appears clear and true from this vantage will not be so from there. The shadows will ever threaten you." He opened his eyes and saw the darkness beyond the edge of this place. It swirled hungrily, drawing his gaze into its grasp. "But you are brave and strong, and you are not alone. Do not be afraid. They will help you."

"I know," he responded, his eyes tiredly closing again.

"And I am always with you." Her voice was a gentle song of devotion and care, sweeping inside him as he breathed deeply her leaves and flowers. "In a dark forest, in the sun, in all places… I am with you." She leaned back, gently grasping his head, and kissed his brow. Long did her lips linger, and then the wind rose and the waves splashed to the shore. He felt the gale push through him with a mild caress, and she faded from his arms. In a shimmer of white and gold, she disappeared. The wind spoke again, and he felt it inside him.  _I love you._

And he was alone with the sea. The endless, beautiful sea. He stared at its waves, lulled by its power, and the gulls were soaring and screaming. The foam broke as each rising swell struck the beach, and the gales ripped the spray from the crests. It pulsed with life, and he felt this inside him as well. He watched it, his heart beating with the rhythm of the waves striking the beach, and everything grew tied to the hum of his call. The familiar longing exploded then from within him. The sea! The sea! He was but its willing prisoner. It came upon him fast and furiously, sundering the last of his resistances, and he did not fight as it tore the thoughts from his mind. It broke the chains about his spirit, and he surged into his flesh. Life like nothing he had before experienced burst through him, brilliant in color and sound and taste and touch, and he knew all. He was all. The sea consumed him, and down he went, eager to know its depths. Eager to be one with its soul.

He felt again. He truly felt, for the horrible nightmare was gone from him and he was free. With his skin he touched. Water. Cool and clean. With his eyes he saw a blurry shifting picture overhead. A dark blob moved closer. With his tongue he tasted the sea. And he heard a familiar voice calling his name. His fingers felt those of another, coarse and familiar and strong, and instinctively they tightened. Confusion sparked panic to life in his beaten body and mind. He was alive, but the waters were hungrily grasping him, and all wish to be their prize faded. He could not breathe! The sea was taking him, but he did not wish to go!

"Legolas!"

Arms grabbed him and lifted, and he broke the surface. Water splashed around him as his limp form was pulled towards something warm and strong and decidedly  _real_. He felt himself cough painfully, lungs that were unused to such strenuous panic struggling to fill his body with much needed air. Weakly his hands grabbed a sodden tunic, holding tight to this anchor he had found in a bizarre and bright world. He could not keep his eyes open, for they hurt, resonating with the pain claiming his trembling form. A whimper fled his lips as he burrowed into the warmth of his savior.

"Legolas? Oh, Legolas!" a voice choked with tears and joy gasped, and then those arms closed tightly around him, pressing his hurt body closer to the heat. A dark shadow fell over him, obscuring the light, and he found the strength to open his eyes just a bit.

A smiling face streaked with tears appeared above him. For a moment, he simply stared. Memory and thought were lost, and he was stumbling through an empty void in his head. He could not quite place together the features properly, so overthrown was he with this barrage of sensation, but when he did, the pain faded for a moment, and he knew he was safe. That this was no dream. His eyes slipped shut again in euphoria strong enough to rip the last of his energy from him.  _Aragorn…_

He did not notice when the man called ecstatically over his shoulder, his friend's voice distant and dim. Nor did he realize he was being carried from the saving waters of the sea. He was tired, and he would rest now. A silence came again, but this time it was different. He was not afraid when he relinquished his tenuous hold upon awareness. He knew it would let him go when the time came. Resolved and relieved, he slept.

* * *

The night proved long and hard, torturous and terrible, but even it would have its dawn. And so it was as that as the sun rose over Minas Tirith, spilling its golden splendor over the White City, Legolas opened his eyes. The act proved mysteriously difficult, as though he was waking from a long sleep he could not recall. Focusing required a great deal of effort, more than it should have, but eventually, after blinking the mist from his eyes, he was able to settle upon a single scene. It took his numbed mind a moment to make sense of what he saw, but then he realized he was looking at the vaulted, white ceiling of his room in Minas Tirith.  _Minas Tirith?_  Confusion lazily brushed over him, and his brow furrowed as he blankly stared. Oddly his mind provided no answers, his thoughts wispy and his memories empty. Had he slept? Vaguely he recalled a troubling insomnia, one that had for days plagued him. Had he finally succumbed to his exhaustion and found some peace?

He grew frustrated with his inability to recall, slightly bothered and fearful that his memories were so muddled. Angry and annoyed, he abandoned his disoriented, disorganized thoughts and instead concentrated on the hazy world around him. He realized he was indeed in his bed in Minas Tirith, the blankets and sheets clean and cool around him. Sunlight streamed through the opened doors of his balcony, spilling inside his room to brightly illuminate it. Again, uncertainty claimed him. This place did not look as he thought it should have. It was orderly and clean, but a chair was pulled from the sitting area to rest idle beside his bed. The nightstand, upon which he rarely kept anything at all, was cluttered with flasks and bottles and a few glasses. He saw a pile of clean sheets upon the desk. His quiver and bow, which he always kept close to him, were nowhere in sight.

But as he lingered in that moment, a strange feeling of unease crawling over him, he began to realize something else. The thought emerged from the emptiness inside his sluggish mind as his eyes widened. He felt it, breathing deep the warm air and smelling the unmistakable scents upon it. He heard the trees singing, felt the world glowing vibrantly with life. Before it had been waning with autumn. Now… He knew it deep inside, in his flesh and bones and spirit. It was summer.

_Elbereth…_

What had happened to him?

Panic came to him, one wrought from a sudden and inescapable terror. Frantically he wracked his mind, desperate to understand this frightening and unusual situation, but the gaping hole where his memories usually resided could not be filled. He was only struck with the displeasing notion that once, and not long ago at that, he had known something. He had come to understand a great truth, and now it was gone from him, pulled into the stillness of sleep and lost. He tried to grasp its teasing sense, but it darted from him, and soon his fright would not permit him the concentration to seek it. His attention scattered. He could not remember anything clearly! Frantically he struggled with his slothful nature, pulling from the darkness anything to aid him in his comprehension. Ithilien. Yes, that morning when Faramir had come to him seeking his aid. Cair Andros. The child he had found, Fethra. Faramir's wounding during the ambush. Tathar's death. Returning to Minas Tirith. The soldier from Linhir and the book he had found in the vaults. The council meeting. The Haradrim at the Gateway, led by the enigmatic Emperor Holis. Aragorn visiting his room, worried and weary. And then…

He whimpered his misery. He could not recall! When was it? What had occurred to so disrupt his memories? Panic coiled in his belly, making him feel terribly queasy. _What has happened to me?_

Then, over the roar of his pounding heart, he heard a soft sound. His acute senses immediately centered upon it, and his stricken mind automatically processed the information. A soft conversation. Muffled voices. People were outside on the balcony speaking quietly. Relief washed over him, leaving him trembling. Casting his fear aside, he decided to seek his answers.

Only he found he simply could not. Legolas moaned as he struggled to sit up, managing to jab his elbows into the mattress beneath him. The joints barely supported the weight as his torso as he fought to lean up, his limbs shaking with the strain. Ai, this was not right! His body felt so weak and heavy and decidedly not his own. His flesh ached in a way he never believed possible, the dull pain consuming him, and he sagged into the pillow with a choked whimper. What was this hurt upon him? What was this sickness? He did not understand! He clenched his teeth to muffle his anguish, his fingers curling weakly around the blanket covering him. Who had done this to him? What had become of his strength? He had never before felt so incredibly weak, and he was horrified.

The voices taunted him. He thought to call to them, but he could not bring forth his voice. It was as lethargic and unresponsive as the rest of his body. His mouth was dry, and his throat burned uncomfortably. Gathering his wits and will, he opened his mouth and forced himself to speak. But his call was naught but a hoarse whisper that rattled his spirit and alarmed his mind. Surely he did not sound as such! Yet, as he lay there apparently helpless, he was beginning to realize that something very serious had befallen him.

 _You are no weakling,_  spat his mind.  _Get up! You can do this! Get up!_  He clenched his jaw, molding his panic into determination, and again pushed his elbows into the mattress. Sweat beaded across his brow as he fought, grunting, pushing with all his strength. His clammy hands shook, his knuckles white, as he squeezed the blankets balled into his fists. Thankfully, his efforts proved successful this time, and, with no small amount of hurt and energy, he had managed to sit up.

Legolas breathed heavily, leaning his trembling form against the cool wood of the headboard of his bed. He had never imagined something so simple and utterly mundane as sitting up could be so arduous a task! But he was upright now at least. Somehow concentrating his mind and body so completely on that action had brought a measure of calm to him, and he gave a small, shaky grin for his triumph. He briefly pondered trying to rise from the bed. However, he could barely even feel, much less move his legs, and which his somewhat paralyzed state frightened him, he would not succumb to the press of panic again. He spied a glass filled with clear liquid on the table beside his bed. He supposed it was water, and immediately his burdened, dehydrated body desired nothing so much. Drawing a deep breath to calm his fluttering heart, he reached for the glass. He was not quite close enough, though, and his straining fingertips only brushed the edge of the vessel. Unfortunately, he had applied force sufficient to tip it when his hand retracted. It spilled to the floor, spreading glass and water everywhere with a loud, shattering crash.

The Elf swallowed, startled. The voices outside halted suddenly in their conversation, and a breath later, a short figure appeared amongst the rays of light streaming through the door. Legolas met Gimli's gaze for a long moment. Neither said anything. Neither moved. This quiet, gentle instant lingered as they beheld each other. And then Gimli's face broke into a grand smile and he released a laughing cry. "Legolas! Legolas! Oh, lad! Aragorn, he is awake!"

A breath later, the king was behind the stout Dwarf. His eyes widened and filled quickly with joyous tears. They looked to each other, the Elf and the man. In those stormy orbs, Legolas saw a great many things that he did not understand. But he knew his spirit rose in seeing his friend. Soul to soul. Brother to brother. The archer smiled, his lips trembling with a sudden burst of emotion, offering his heart tentatively to his friend. Aragorn paused a moment, as if uncertain and uneasy, but then he smiled as well.

There was a clamor behind the two as two short creatures pushed their way through the Dwarf and man obstructing their way. They halted briefly. "Legolas!" Merry cried, his face aglow with happiness.

"Legolas! Oh, praise be! Legolas!" The last of Pippin's words escalated into a laugh as he catapulted himself towards the Elf's bed, his eyes twinkling with mirth and a great smile stretching from cheek to cheek. Merry followed, bounding across the room, and both threw themselves onto the bed with all the glee of children. Legolas did not understand; when had they come? But he banished his puzzlement, losing himself in the moment as together they gaily embraced him.

"You had us so worried," Merry declared as he hugged the thin Elf. He leaned back and wiped at the wetness clinging to his eyelashes. He sniffed, laughing. "For months and months!"

 _Months…_  Legolas' stomach clenched and his world nearly spun with the implications of what the excited Halflings were saying. He supposed he had known, given the warm weather and bright summer sun, but he had maintained some irrational bit of faith that this thought was a manifestation of his disorientation. His spirits darkened, sinking with the realization that it was no such thing. Apparently some great amount of time had passed, and he had no memory of it. He forced his startled mind to concentrate on his surroundings, though, no matter how mightily worry pulled upon him. "I never doubted," Pippin said. The Tookish Hobbit leaned back on his heels, speaking hurriedly. "You were too strong to be defeated by something like this. I knew you'd find your way back if we could just wait for you–"

"Pippin," Aragorn interrupted softly. His face was bright with joy and mirth, but his eyes held a bit of scolding. Pippin looked to him and winced apologetically, realizing he was smothering the newly awoken Elf and speaking things he probably ought not. He blushed, averting his eyes shamefully. "Go and find the others. I am certain they would like to hear this good news."

Pippin smiled then, immediately understanding what Aragorn was subtly asking of him. He nodded, climbing down from the bed. Legolas watched this somewhat dazedly, growing more muddled as his overloaded senses struggled to contend with the scene. "Surely." Pippin grasped the Elf's hand firmly, squeezing once. "We'll come back. Come on, Merry."

A moment later the two Hobbits were gone, stepping outside the room with a controlled excitement in their step. Legolas watched the door shut with a soft thud. He stared at closed portal, feeling lightheaded and increasingly dizzy. A lazy exhaustion was claiming his heavy body, and he was having great difficulty shifting his attention. This excitement was simply too much too fast, and he was too weak and lost to contend with both that and the pressing mystery of what had happened to him.

Gimli stepped to the bed, glancing down at the mess of broken glass on the floor. His weathered, rough hands grasped Legolas' fingers, squeezing them firmly. The prince managed to look to him, his eyes glazed and his head hurting. "Are you alright?" Gimli softly questioned. His cheeks as well were damp with tears.

The Elf breathed slowly, struggling to compose himself and answer this seemingly simple question. He felt as if he was being blown about by great gales, and he was lost in a violent, confusing storm. His eyes closed slightly, his dear friend's face growing blurry. "I… I broke the glass," he murmured. Some part of his mind chastised him, for that hardly answered Gimli's question. But his thoughts were scattered.

Gimli chuckled lightly, though worry glowed in his dark eyes. "Do not fret yourself over such a thing, Elf," he lightly scolded. Aragorn appeared again over the Dwarf's shoulder, though Legolas could not honestly recall when his friend had left. He handed Gimli another glass of water. "Here. This will soothe your throat."

The Dwarf offered the vessel to his weak friend. Legolas stared at it a moment, blinking as if such an action could clear his head. The water allured him, and weakly his fingers grasped the cool surface. Yet he did not have the strength to hold the glass steady, his wrists and hand quivering madly as he attempted to raise it to his dry lips. Tears of frustration sprung to his eyes and anger struck him. How pathetic! He was an Elf prince, and he could not even lift his hand without a horrid shaking. Even worse than this, his heart was laden with shame for the misery and melancholy threatening him. Why had he no control over his emotions? Where was his stoic poise, his calm, his composure? He was not this weak, this feeble! He did not know what had happened to him, but with each moment, with each tear he saw his companions shed, he became more certain that it had been something quite terrible.

A choked sob fled his lips. Aragorn was quick to intercede as his arm descended and the water began to spill down the sides of the glass. The man's steadying hand wrapped about his, strengthening his grasp, and together they lifted the vessel to the Elf's mouth. Legolas drank slowly, the water cool and pleasant to his dry throat, washing the way the lingering ghost of foulness. Even swallowing proved somewhat laboriously, and he was forced to conjure forth a conscious effort to work the muscles involved in what should have been a reflexive action. He nearly cried for his sad state. But he did not. Aragorn's eyes were soft and reassuring, a firm, loving smile upon his lips, and Legolas remained strong.

When nearly half the water was gone, the ranger helped the archer lower the glass and then took it from him. Legolas released a long breath, averting his eyes from the concerned, intense stares of his friends. He did not understand it, but he felt ashamed. Partly such a temperament was borne from his present condition. He despised weakness, and it was quite apparent he had been their burden for quite some time. Still, there was something more, something he could not quite explain that troubled him. Again he cursed his faulty memory. A general sense of foreboding and fear was beginning to focus itself unto a single notion: something terrible had been done to him, and, in turn, he had done something terrible. This prospect was shrouded in shadows, deep and dark, and he was terrified of it. He was terrified of even trying to understand.

The three were silent for some time. Reunited at long last they were, and yet a tension came between them. Aragorn and Gimli glanced between themselves as though nervous. Despite his jumbled senses, the Elf perceived these quick, anxious looks clearly, and something inside him began to ache hideously. Instinctively he dropped his hand to the cover his left side, but he found no tenderness. The wound inflicted by the Easterling at Cair Andros was gone now, healed finally though he had no memory of its disappearance. But still he thought he felt the ache, dull and insistent. Had he grown so accustomed to its discomfort that now a ghost haunted him? After a moment spent in thought, he realized it was no phantom. This wound, as simple and inconsequential, was the last thing he truly remembered clearly. What came after that night seemed blurry, and though he could recall facts and people and events, these wisps of thought were void of the sort of substance that brought color and realism to memory. They were without emotion, as though he had, detached from his body and all places, watched the world move about him.

Legolas released a long breath, his eyes filling with tears. Elves were gifted with remarkable memories. Thousand of years filled their heads, yet each moment, though losing its sharpness in time, never dulled in its vibrant color or emotion. He could not honestly say how exactly many years had passed since he had come of age, or since he had joined in his first hunting tour or ridden to war with his brothers at Smaug's mountain, but he knew each moment for there were bright stars in his spirit, shining individually with unique perceptions that remained constant no matter the slipping of years from his immortal life. To lay there now and know there was a terribly large hole in his memory frightened him. This, combined with the peculiar heaviness and weakness of his flesh, the strangeness of the world around him, and his friend's obvious deep relief at seeing him cognizant, perturbed him greatly. It came to a point where he could no longer bear to simply wonder, his thoughts too empty and sluggish, so he turned his blurry vision upon Aragorn's face. "What has happened?" he asked, his tone a mere whisper.

His dearest friend smiled, but Legolas saw the gesture for its lie. In the man's eyes swirled countless things: fear, shame, pain and anger… terrible, unending grief. But there was light as well, and relief and love. The man took his hand, squeezing it firmly as he sat upon the bed. "You were hurt, my friend," he answered softly. A tentative apprehension twisted his countenance, and Legolas knew immediately, despite his lethargy, that those words were a vast and patronizing understatement. "What can you remember?"

Frustrated and frightened, he simply drew a deep breath to calm himself as he struggled to think and simply answer the question. His eyelids were stubbornly sliding downward, but he could not permit their closing. He needed to understand! "I… I recall an autumn morning in Ithilien. Faramir came to me, disturbing its peace… nay, there was no peace. I could not sleep, for days and days, plagued by a sense of foreboding so deep and draining that it denied me any semblance of rest… Have I finally slept?" His jumbled words grew silent in a hopeful question.

The pain on the king's face flattened any hope that the answer was so simple. He looked to Gimli, his countenance white and wishing for aid. The Dwarf sighed gently. "Aye, lad," he responded finally, his voice burdened. "You have slept."

"For how long?"

"Six months," the stout warrior replied, holding his gaze. Legolas felt as though he had been struck. A clammy sense of dizziness rolled over his hapless body, and vertigo left him nauseated and trembling. He closed his eyes, not knowing how to feel or what to think. Could this be true? Could it be real? Gimli grunted, his low baritone a firm rumble as he again spoke. "But you are well now, and that is all that is important."

That was a horrible and false belief, but from Gimli's lips, with his dark eyes strong and his love for the Elf laid bare in all of its infallible power, it seemed almost possible. But Legolas, while drawing comfort from this, could not so easily brush aside the unanswered questions and spinning riddles in his head. His mind, though it felt as though it was stuffed with cotton, was beginning to come back to itself. "And the war? What has become of it?"

"It is over," Gimli answered him. "Gondor is as strong as it ever was." The news surprised the Elf, his eyes widening. Then Gimli grinned. "Yes, Elf, it is possible for us to manage a battle without your skill! Haughty creature," he jested.

Legolas smiled, eased by the levity. "I never doubted your fortitude, Gimli, but rather the measure of a mind available to put it to good and prudent use," he returned, countering the Dwarf's baiting as he had always done. His words were halting, a mere shadow of their usual strength, but the comment was a welcomed sign of recovery. Aragorn smiled, resting Legolas' hand between his own, as the Elf's eyes slipped shut. "Is everyone safe?"

"Oh, yes," Gimli immediately returned, speaking as though the archer was a fool to doubt. "Quite well. Worried about you, but of sound mind and body." The Dwarf's expression softened, and his eyes suddenly filled with tears. He came closer to the bed, smiling lopsidedly, a absolute joy upon his ruddy face. "Oh, Legolas. You have given us all such a scare." And with that, the small creature embraced the Elf.

Legolas wrapped his arms around Gimli slowly, the need for comfort driving energy into his deadened limbs. The Dwarf gave a weeping chuckle as he squeezed the slender frame. Frizzy, red hair tickled Legolas' cheek as he rested his chin on his friend's firm shoulder. "But I knew you were too stubborn and strong to leave us! I knew it!" When they released each other, Gimli shook his head, as though embarrassed by his show of emotion. He wiped away the evidence of it from his cheeks, shaking his head ruefully. "Fool Elf. You alone can reduce me to such a sobbing mess."

The archer grinned weakly, touched as always by Gimli's ability to hearten him. To see him now eased his weary spirit. He did not know to what torment they had been subjected, through what misery they had walked, but he was glad to have his truest friends with him now. The day was bright and warm, and whatever lay ahead seemed a small matter given the renewed bond of love and devotion pulsing between them. A hand fell upon his head, and he turned to gaze upon Aragorn. His dearest companion seemed reserved and deeply troubled, though he masked it well with smiles and joyful tears of his own. "How do you feel?" he inquired.

Legolas swallowed, finding his mouth dry again. He was not entirely certain of a response to such a question, for he felt strange beyond any comprehension. He doubted he could probably vocalize the queer sensations claiming him. It was as though his entire body was tingling to life again, sore and tender but very much vibrant, as though his flesh had been dormant and dull for a great while without the light of his spirit to empower it. He supposed, given what he had learned and what he could gather, such an analogy was not far from the truth. "Weary," he finally declared, forcing his wandering mind and senses to focus. "And terribly sore. My body feels not my own."

Aragorn paled slightly with that comment but spoke before the Elf could think to question him. The king nodded solemnly, gravely. He looked as though he wished to speak, to divulge the darkness that dragged him down, but he said nothing for many tense moments. Legolas felt a grotesque inkling of a thought slithering about the shadows inside him. As he watched his friend's lowered face and averted eyes, it drifted about him, sending his heart slowly into a panicked beat. He did not understand it, and it frightened him. Something was not right… Something dark and twisted, perverted… A bit of memory. A tingling moment of the past.

Finally, whatever had restrained Aragorn proved inferior to his need to rejoice in this moment, and the king leaned forward to draw Legolas into his arms as well. But the Elf recoiled. That wicked little whisper of danger rose suddenly into a shrill scream, and he felt an alarming, terrifying breath of an unspeakable betrayal. As Aragorn's arms wrapped around him, a very instinctive mechanism took hold of his seemingly paralyzed mind and body, and he stiffening, pulling away as much as his weakened state would allow him.

And Aragorn realized his horror immediately. His firm jaw quivered, his eyes wide in shock and the realization of a long-feared reality. Legolas saw the agony in his friend's gaze. He did not understand! "I – I know not why I did that," he stammered frantically, torn inside and panicked at the ghostly warnings pounding at his soul. "I am sorry!" he moaned guiltily. The meager measure of control he had over his emotions fled him. He was so lost, so confused, and he could not remember anything! Aragorn's white cheeks glistened, and he turned away, his shoulders shaking. "Please… Tell me what happened to me!"

But before Aragorn could speak, the door opened. Legolas turned wide, startled eyes to the portal, tears dripping down his pale face. There stood his friends and family. Arwen and Éowyn. Faramir and Éomer. Elladan and Elrohir. The sight of so many sent his mind reeling. The world began to close in around him as he heard their laughter, their cries of sheer joy, and he saw them coming towards him. Immediately he became bombarded with seemingly groundless emotions. Fear. Horror. Pain and terror and anger like he had never before known. But they were borne from nothing but the hazy emptiness where he knew his memories should have been. Frantically he tried to comprehend this maniacal flood of feelings, but he could not, and they were drawing closer, arms open and eyes alight.

Then, as suddenly as this insanity came upon him, it was gone. As though the storm realized it had no basis in this world, without memory to validate it or purpose to substantiate, it disappeared. Legolas gasped, sobbing both in relief and utter joy, when Arwen reached the bed and took him into her arms. He leaned into her familiar sense, her warm, peaceful aura a soothing balm to his battered spirit. "Oh, Legolas," she whispered into his ear, squeezing him tightly and conveying to him the very depths of her devotion. "I have so missed you."

She was gone in a flurry of color and motion, and Elladan and Elrohir were next to embrace him. The twins laughed, and though Legolas, again, had no concept of why they were in Minas Tirith, he cast aside his confusion and joined in their joy. Each hugged him fiercely, lightly chastising him for so cruelly worrying them all. When they pulled away, Éomer's hand fell to his shoulder, squeezing it firmly. The young king smiled broadly, saying nothing. Merry and Pippin were beside him, rapidly chattering about some inane topic, their conversation moving too quickly for Legolas to follow. The twins shifted, stepping back from his bed, and Éowyn came forward.

The Elf's eyes widened in shock. Truly he had missed much! "You are with child?" he asked quietly, gazing at the prominent swell of the White Lady's belly. Éowyn nodded, smiling brightly, tears making her rosy cheeks shine. She lingered a moment, their eyes meeting and rejuvenating a soft, gentle connection. Then she too came forward and hugged him tightly. Neither spoke, for this was a sort of raw, open emotion the two rarely shared with each other. Theirs had always been a reserved friendship. But this moment was without reservation, the press of love and euphoria and new life too strong to quell.

After she released him, he saw Faramir. The steward stood to his wife's left, and upon his face was the same sort of twisted misery Legolas saw upon Aragorn's. The young lord seemed torn between a driving need to partake in this glorious renewal and a halting fear that he would not be welcomed. As Legolas gazed upon his friend, that same crawling sense of unease churned in his stomach. When Faramir raised his eyes and settled upon the Elf, that hateful emotion intensified. But Legolas bit it to be quiet. There was darkness there, shadows hiding in the corners of hearts and spirits on this bright day, but for now they could be ignored. Nothing would hurt him here. Nobody would ever hurt him here.

And Faramir seemed to understand this as well, for the steward managed a tentative, grateful smile. They did not speak, for there were no words really to describe the moment or how either of them felt. They had come through the shadows, walking a path full of peril and twists, but they had come to this moment together. And though there were many scars, many hurts yet left bleeding and swollen with unshed tears, for now it was enough to know that love and brotherhood survived even the blackest of nights. Some things truly were immutable. The sun would rise. Winter would become spring and summer, and new life would come. Fellowship would always persevere as long as hearts were true.

The first step was taken on a long, dark path. He was reminded of a voice cautioning him that this journey would be difficult, though he could not recall who had spoken the warning or when he had heard it. He was not sure of anything, save that he had been given a choice. Upon the shore, the sea singing to his spirit… He had seen the shadows, and yet he had decided to embark upon what he knew would be the most difficult quest of his life.

He had reclaimed his body. Now he needed to face all that had marred his spirit.

But, for now, he could simply rest. He was tired, though he could not say why, and the fact of having those he loved and honored close to him had eased him into a pleasant sense of peace. He heard laughter and talking, the sounds of elation filling the room and his head. The Hobbits joking. Éomer adding a comment, and Gimli laughing at it. Elladan and Elrohir shaking their heads and lightheartedly castigating the group for their frivolity. More laughter. It washed over him, the warmth of their affection, and the shadows were pushed to the side. He would face them later, but he would not do it alone. At the moment, there was naught but happiness.

He felt a hand upon his, and he turned his head to see Aragorn watching him with hopeful eyes. Deep within the gray orbs the sadness lingered still, and it was clear Legolas' involuntary flinch before had wounded the man. He was now seeking confirmation, affirmation that such a reaction was not permanent, that things could be as they were, that their friendship remained as strong and pure as it ever was. His spirit was reaching forth towards that of his brother's, once long denied but now luminous once more.

Legolas smiled, offering his friend's hand a firm squeeze. He was no more certain of what lay before them, of what had happened to him and what he could not remember. But he knew that he had returned because of Aragorn, because his spirit, as strong as it was, was lonely and incomplete without the support of his friend. He was weak without his brother. And reunited, no matter what they needed to face to finally put this misery behind them, they would again be strong.

"I did not mean to hurt you," he murmured, leaning his head against the firm wood behind him, focusing blearily on his friend's yearning eyes. "I am glad you are here with me."

Aragorn smiled tenderly, offering Legolas' weak fingers a tender squeeze. He seemed slightly absolved for the light returned to his face. "I know, Legolas. And I will stay with you as long as you need. I always will." The man leaned forward and finally embraced the Elf, bridging the distance between them, and the two, strong and hopeful, remained together.


	45. A Pale Moon Rises

"Come on, lad, just take another step."

Legolas gritted his teeth. It seemed a simple task, but he was very tired and his destination appeared very far from him. The chair was stationed near the entrance to the balcony, idly awaiting his approach, taunting him with the promise of rest in the warm rays of the sun. He stood still a second, his heart thundering, his breath ragged, struggling to compose himself and will his body to move. Such a silly thing! An Elf warrior, once unparalleled in grace and power, unable to walk but a few steps between one end of a balcony and another! His mouth tasted dry and bitter. Despite his anger, frustration, and weariness, he refused to be defeated. Gimli sensed his tense determination, steadying him as he caught his wind. "You can do this, Elf."

He cared not for the encouragement, for it only made sharper the difficulty of what should have been an easy, thoughtless task. His pride throbbed hatefully, patronized and pummeled, and he lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes. A cool breeze disrupted the heated air about them, brushing through his hair and across his skin. A thin sheen of sweat covered his face, and he felt utterly repulsive. Resolution, fed by the fires of his anger, drove his tired, aching body into motion. The act required much of his energy and will, but he managed another slow, halting step. His bare foot fell upon the firm stone in a greatly retarded, deliberate fashion, and when his weight came upon his knee and ankle, the joints ached mightily and he wondered anew if he would fall. But the pain receded and its vertigo released him. Uncoordinated and disjointed, he took another slow step, and another, continuing until he reached the chair. Gimli never left his side, quiet and concerned as he aided his friend in walking and then sitting.

Legolas closed his eyes, swallowing a painful lump in his throat, as he settled into the comfortable seat. What a trying torture it was to simply walk! He shivered despite the warmth of the summer day, for the wind turned the moisture shining on his skin cold. Gimli was quick to drape a light blanket over the prince's lap as he recovered. The archer then heard the Dwarf rummaging a bit, picking through the contents of the table that had been pulled outside. His acute ears registered the clink of glass striking glass and the soft swish of pouring water. Gimli shifted, and Legolas opened his eyes tiredly. "You look terribly pale, even for one of your fair complexion," the stout creature commented. Legolas did not answer, taking the offered drink. His hand shook slightly as he brought it to his mouth. His friend watched him imbibe the refreshing liquid with careful scrutiny, and Legolas smoldered under the attention. They need not fret over him so!

But he said nothing. He never did. More than a week had passed since he had awoken from what he had learned to be something of a comatose state, and in that time he had hardly ever been left alone. His friends were always with him. Merry and Pippin. Elladan and Elrohir. Faramir and Éowyn and Éomer and Gimli. Arwen. Aragorn. They cared for him as they might a sick child, and, as much as he wished to deny it, he knew it was warranted. His condition frustrated him greatly. Only now, in these last two days, had he been able to stand and move about, and even then he required the support of another. His body, weathered by the six months he had spent unconscious and the injuries he had endured before it, was slow to heal. He was terribly weak, and he was alarmed to see the amount of weight he had lost during his ordeal. Rectifying such a matter, as Aragorn declared, was a simple matter of eating heartily and gradually readjusting to the pressures of everyday life. Again, this was an undertaking that seemed easy enough for its mundane purposes, but he found it to be terribly difficult. His appetite was elusive, and often, though he felt famished enough to devour a large meal, when the food arrived before him the mere sight and smell of it nauseated him and he was forced to push it aside. Strange, phantom pains wracked him constantly, slipping about his body as though to tease, and he found this disability quite infuriating. He had never suffered such discomforts prior this disaster, and he was unaccustomed to the random headaches, to the dull hurts brought upon his weak muscles and bones by too much activity, to the general lethargy he seemed simply unable to shake.  _Time,_  he thought bitterly, holding the half emptied glass of water upon his thigh.  _Perhaps Aragorn thinks it powerful, but I fear it can do naught for me. This prison my body has become maddens me!_

He could think of no other way to describe this… this  _misery_. He was a wood Elf, so tightly and lovingly bound with nature, with all of life's vibrancy and vigor, and he felt awfully and static. How he longed to run! How he longed to be free again, to feel the wind in his hair, to smell the trees and greet their songs with own of his own! But he could not run, and he was trapped in this city of stone. Surely he knew he was improving, but his recovery was sluggish and far beneath the pace he would have liked. At times he believed, when despair was close and he was in pain, that he merely languished, that this road had no end and that he could never be free of his plight. He tried to have faith. He tried to maintain hope that all would end well, and that he would one day awake to find his body whole and his life as it was before any of this mysterious disaster had come upon him. But such a fancy was only that and nothing more. Nothing was so simple, and wounds often hurt far more in healing than they ever did when they were inflicted.

He did not wish to think these things, to succumb to the growing sense of blackness poisoning his spirit, but he found the task of maintaining his light to be arduous these days past. Although his physical body appeared to be slowly improving, his mind had somehow degraded into a deeper toil. Much to his anger and fear, he had not been able to draw forth from his friends and family the nature of what had been done to him. They, of course, had explained to him of his capture at Emyn Nimsîr and some of his suffering at the hands of the Haradrim. He had been returned to them by Emperor Holis as a means to foolishly trick them into lowering their defenses and exposing the White City. Yet their supplying of details was reluctant and the facts themselves terribly sparse, and this more than anything they could have possibly said alerted him to the very blackness of it all. For them, even months and months after the war's wintry end, the wound was still festering and pains were yet unresolved. He had not truly known what to think of their inability to express to him the substance of his capture. Part of him was angry that they should think him so weak as to deny him a truth he deserved. After all, it was to his body and mind the damage had been done. Another part of him, one that was gaining strength in these last days, did not wish to know what they withheld. Certainly they averted their eyes and changed the subject when he pressed them for a reason. A mounting sense of foreboding had claimed him, and he was afraid of the truth for its ugliness. Before, when consciousness was new upon him and the glow of his companions' love and care still shielded him, he had been greatly vexed that they denied him the truth. Before, he had wished nothing so much as to understand.

But then he had begun to remember, and everything had violently changed.

It had started as a simple thing. A wisp of a thought would stray too close to the darkness inside his head, and from the abyss reached the hand of a recollection. No longer simple emotions were these. They were contextual, filled with experiences that chilled his blood and shattered his hold upon reality. Moreover, they were so muddled, so completely unconnected and confusing, that he was left terrified by the random scenes and sensations. He would sit in bed, listening to Merry and Pippin regale some tale of Samwise Gamgee's terms as mayor in the Shire, and suddenly he would feel chains upon his wrists and taste blood and tears. He would slowly lift spoonfuls of broth to his mouth in the company of Arwen's smiles and laughter, and abruptly he would hear her sobbing and feel her cool hands upon his fevered forehead. He would know a pain like none other as he lay in bed at night, and he felt sick and nauseous as though he was battling some great illness. And, worst of all, he would spend moments with Aragorn or Faramir, conversing with them over inane matters, and without warning he would be plunged into a world where he saw their friendly eyes demented with lust and violence. Then he would touch something truly dark, truly evil. These images came to him, weeping, screaming, blood and pain and betrayal, and he did not understand as they arbitrarily and erratically bombarded his unknowing spirit. Like shards of shattered glass, they fell about him, and as he looked into the tiny mirrors, he saw a reflection not his own.

Only recently was he brave enough to hold to these haphazard tendrils that came to him. He grasped them mightily, casting aside his horror and despair, and refused to release them until he could analyze them. He began, slowly and with great emotional effort, to piece them together. In the darkness of the late hours, he lay in bed, his eyes empty as he mindlessly watched the vaulted ceilings above his bed, his mind deep in a racing endeavor to see these memories understood. There were two distinct tracts, he had quickly realized: one was something of a lasting, lingering sickness that had, much to his horror, resulted in his death, and the other was a time of torture and torment at the hands of his captors. Most disturbingly, he was beginning to believe that the men who had hurt him had been no strangers at all. When he closed his eyes and the nightmares came to him, he saw the face of Aragorn or Faramir, their crazed eyes staring into his as he was torn apart by their hands. Once the initial terror and absolute revulsion of such a revelation wore, he was able to slowly convince himself that such a thing was impossible. He was in Minas Tirith, and nobody would ever do him harm. Surely this was only the scattered pieces of a bad dream.

Still, why would he ever dream such a thing? He could not answer that. And beyond this, there was another stream of consciousness emerging within him, one that terrified him more than any other. Death, while cruel and cold, was final at the very least, and he could still convince himself that the torture, no matter who had wrought it upon him, was inconsequential now for its termination. But these last wisps of a forgotten reality were too difficult to reconcile. He touched the rage borne within him when he felt Aragorn's hands upon him and heard Faramir's cruel laughter. He felt this madness, this burning, murderous hatred, and when he did, a new world was revealed to him. He saw himself committing the most heinous deeds. An arrow to his bowstring, Aragorn's body within his sights, and then the shot left his masterful fingers, soaring forth to strike his friend. His hands wrapped about Faramir's throat and squeezing powerfully. His knives glinting as he fought against the twins. Struggling with his friends, cold and cruelly seeking to snap the neck of his dearest brother… The knife he had sunk into the unsuspecting steward's side. His screams. The cold blade cutting into his own flesh. Andúril, heavy in his hands, as he struck down the beast that had tormented him.

The point of the sword resting before Aragorn's terrified eyes.

_Ai, what have I done?_

It was becoming increasingly apparent to him that the level of damage done to his spirit was far beyond what he had originally realized. He had awoken, confused and disoriented, believing that he had simply finally succumbed to the weight of his exhaustion after many sleepless nights. That wound to his side had troubled him, and perhaps it had been more serious than he had originally considered it to be. But nothing could be farther from the truth. Much had been done to him, and he had done much in return. It terrified him that these three completely different, contradicting meshes of memory battled for supremacy within him. He was beginning to wonder what was real. Logic dictated that he had dreamt of his death, that that scenario, though terribly vivid, was nothing more than an illusion. The other two were more difficult to resolve. He had spent many hours forcing himself to think on it, desperate to unravel the knotted ball of memories inside him and see the truth. He concluded that these two lines of his life were not so disjointed as he had originally thought. They lost their temporal aspects now, as they assailed him without reason or order, but once he began to sort through him and piece together the shattered realities he knew them to be linked. Cause and effect. The gruesome anger bred into him by the torture had driven him in the murderous acts. Brutality bred much the same, and he had been the prisoner of his hatred and vengeance. It was not something to which he would ever have willingly submitted, and that gave him pause. He knew it was still within him, this madness, hot and violent and desperate. What had been done to him that created this monster of his peace?

He was no longer certain he wished to know. He avoided Aragorn and Faramir, feigning sleep when they came to visit him out of anger and fear and an unwillingness to face the unresolved matters between them. This was cowardice. He knew unless he addressed this twisted, confusing torment, unless he freed himself from this writhing hell, he would never heal. His body might recover, but the demons would ever choke him. He was afraid of the shadows he felt within him. He was afraid of that madness, that bloody, vicious madness. It was locked away now, kept at bay by the heavy fact of safety and security, but he was terrified that one day it would demand its release. He wished to see it defeated, but he did not know how to calm the fire. The endless barrage of memories fueled it further, and as he lingered in the hazy mist of then and now and all that he could not understand, he could not help but wonder if he was truly free at all.

"Master Elf?"

Gimli's tentative call pulled him from his consuming, dark thoughts, and Legolas looked up, focusing upon his comrade. The Dwarf sat in the chair opposite from him. He had been munching upon a bit of cheese and bread, but these items had been set aside in concern. Gimli watched him keenly, worry deep in his dark eyes. "Is something wrong, Legolas?"

The prince could have laughed for the stupidity of the question. He gave a small, rueful grin that was devoid of any happiness, and for a long time, he said nothing. The Dwarf acted so contentedly about him. Where Aragorn and Faramir often seemed hesitant, Gimli never was. He seemed to consider this matter completed, as the war was long over and now the Elf was restored. Anger welled up inside Legolas. How could he think so simply of the matter? How could he ignore the agony and anger that remained still? Part of Legolas immediately grew disgusted with his thoughts. Gimli had no cause for concern, really, because the prince had told no one of his inner turmoil. These random, raucous recollections he kept secret for many reasons. He was afraid of them, afraid of what they meant. He was worried that he was losing his mind. He was too proud, too stubborn to admit that he desperately needed help. Worst of all, he was beginning to be beset in paranoia. Doubts flitted about his head. All of them treated him with such fearful detachment, as though he might break if he were handled too roughly, or as though he might uncover the truth if he looked too closely… Why would Aragorn and Faramir have done such a wretched thing to him? The ache inside was brutal, clenching his lungs until he could barely stand to draw breath.

The pain became too great. "Gimli…" he finally said, feeling his eyes burn with tears he had held back for days. The wind pulled locks of his hair free from behind his ears, blowing them teasingly across his face as he slowly looked to his friend. "Do you think me mad?"

The Dwarf simply stared at him blankly a moment, as if he had not understood the question. Then his gaze flashed with shock and a bit of anger. "Mad? Hardly," he answered. "What would give you cause to believe such a thing?" Legolas jammed his teeth into his lower lip to stop its incessant quivering. Misery twisted his heart, and he could not find it within him to respond. He would not cry. For the sake of everything, he could not cry! But the Dwarf's soft words freed the tears from his eyes. "Why are you doing this torment to yourself? You need not suffer alone."

Anger surged through him. He raised a clammy hand to wipe the disgusting tears from his cheeks. "I do nothing to myself," he countered icily. "It has been done to me. I am lost in it."

"And you would sit here and lament your state? That is hardly within your character," Gimli declared, shaking his head slightly. His jaw was set in determination. "Put aside your pride, Legolas. It will do you no good. You must release this misery." Legolas clenched his fingers in the blanket, squeezing until his fist shook. He looked down, furious and ashamed. "I have seen it in your eyes these last days. You are troubled, laden with anguish. The light I saw in you has been smothered by something heavy and foul. You cannot submit to this. It will destroy you."

"What would you know of it?" Legolas spat angrily, turning a blazing glare upon his friend. He did not mean to vent his wrath upon Gimli, for he knew the Dwarf was only trying to aid him. But the stout warrior's words had hurt him for their truth.

Gimli was undeterred by the brunt of the Elf's fiery mood. "Too little," he admitted solemnly, his expression firm, "and yet enough. I know you languish in doubt, that you wither under the weight of a dawning realization. I am no dullard, Elf. I see these things as I see you, ever clear to my eyes. Your memories return to you." Legolas stiffened, dropping his gaze with a hiss. He did not want to face this. Gimli sighed. "I knew they would eventually."

The Elf shook his head. "I will not discuss it," he stubbornly announced, his tone seething a warning to Gimli should he try to venture further into this topic. It was simply too private, a terror he wished to keep hidden for fear of what its implications could be. He did not believe himself to be strong enough to face any of it.

But his dear friend was often wiser and braver than he, and his concern was too great to be brushed aside by the angry dismissal of the Elf. "You will," he countered, his own tone tense and unyielding, "because you must. I know you, Elf. You will swallow this inside you like so much poison, knowing full well its dangers but choking upon it all the same for the sake of some misguided pursuit of perfection. I know, because I have stood, idle in my frustration, and watched you do such a thing countless times in the past. Your father is not here, and even if he were, he would never frown upon you! I will not stand so helplessly this time. You will talk to me and I will hear your pain. I am your friend, Legolas, and I will never think less of you."

His anger disappeared, fleeing his body like the coward it was and leaving him to a fate now unavoidable. "I am not so strong," he admitted softly. The words tasted horrible, and they left him shaking for fear of their truth. "I do not wish to bring this into the light. Little of it do I see or understand, but I know beyond any doubt that it is foul and black. Gimli… Ai, I believe I am losing my mind."

"Then let us reclaim it," the Dwarf responded firmly. In his eyes sparked a tiny bit of trepidation for what was about to come, but grander than this was his determination to see Legolas unburden his heart. "It will ease your weary have to release this shadow. Speak, Legolas, and make lighter your anguish."

"It cannot be made lighter!" snapped the Elf furiously. The anger he heard in his own voice disgusted him, but he could not for all the want of his pounding heart find his stoic peace and lace it into his words. His control over his emotions was all but gone, battered to death by the storm within him. "I suffer in this place, Gimli. I suffer the strangeness of thoughts not my own and memories that seem utterly incomprehensible. They come swift to me, as though fueled in rectifying their former absence, and I am but their victim as they pound their horrible lies into my head! But they are no lies, are they? When at last I was given the strength to consider them, I knew immediately that these memories, that these  _realities_ , were not the product of a nightmare I underwent while slumbering haplessly for six months. These are the wisps of what I endured, and they tear me apart, clawing at every bit of my spirit to claim me for their own sport." He paused, drawing a shaking breath, the words coming faster and faster from his trembling lips. The filth, once released, poured from him as water did through a cracked and crumbling dam. "I am here, Gimli. I see your face. I smell the fresh air and taste the cool water. I know this peace. Yet it seems false to me, another clever ploy, for I am beginning to understand that I was cruelly tricked by reality before. It is madness, surely, but I cannot dismiss these thoughts that tumble about my head!" He gave a twisted, tormented chuckle, the bitterness spilling from him. "The world is only as real as one perceives it to be, I suppose. And if one cannot trust his own sense of reality, what can one trust?"

Gimli shook his head. "You burden yourself unnecessarily with these thoughts," he declared, though his voice wavered ever so slightly and betrayed his doubt.

"Do not invalidate them! You have never been given cause to question! I open my eyes, and feel this place, these stones and mortar and all the memories therein, close about me until I am crushed. And then…" The tears streaked down his face, but he no longer had the strength to brush them away, to ignore how he truly felt. His anger had cooled with but a breath. "And then I cannot help but wonder. Perhaps… Perhaps I never awoke at all. Perhaps I am trapped yet in a world that is not real. Perhaps I dream still."

Gimli's expression hardened in frantic concern as he grabbed Legolas' knee firmly. "Never think such a thing," he admonished firmly. "You are safe here. You must know that!" The pain still came, furiously leaking from eyes the Elf had squeezed shut, and he pulled away. He tried to stand, ashamed and miserable, but his hateful body betrayed him. His knees hit the floor a moment later, the blanket falling about him, the glass of water spilling to the ground. "Legolas," his companion desperately called, grasping both his shoulders as the archer doubled over. The prince's pale countenance was now red with pain and tears, and he sobbed piteously, simply wishing to be free of this lasting torture. "Please, Elf. Let me help you."

The desperation in his dear comrade's soft tone pierced through the veil of Legolas' intense anguish. He managed to catch his wind, never lifting his gaze from a blurry mesh of stone and shadow beneath his trembling body. He swallowed back his nausea. "No, Gimli," he finally answered, a surprising calm coming to his voice. "You cannot help me. I have lost my mind."

"No!" the Dwarf returned, giving his crestfallen companion a slight shake. The horror clenching the other's voice was deep and undeniable.

But Legolas hardly heard his denial. His blue eyes were unfocussed and lifeless, his lips hardly moving as he whispered, "I see him… All the time, he haunts me, a ghost that I can never escape yet never will myself to face. When I sleep, with my waking eyes…" The fair creature shuddered, the revolting terror leaving him cold and tense. "He is inside me."

Gimli was frantic to silence his friend's woe. "He had no such power," he announced, though his voice lacked fervor and fortitude. "Not in life and certainly he has not now in death."

"Yes, he does," Legolas amended, "for he has made my mind think things I never imagined possible. He has used my body for his evil plots, but I was no unwilling participant. I see what he did to me, but I do not understand. Ai, I do not understand!" His breath hitched upon a sob, and he leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his stomach. "I wish nothing so much as to just understand…" He lifted his burning eyes, seeking his friend's face. Gimli's twisted, concerned visage was made watery and distant by his tears. "Can you tell me the truth? Can you tell me why I see my dearest friends taking my body against my will?"

Gimli's subsequent silence was more enough to make Legolas' shivering spirit all but collapse. The Dwarf looked upon him, obviously startled by his timid question and unsure of how to address it. The silence was terrible, and even the fine day was quiet, apparently holding its breath in fear of this moment. Then Gimli sighed, closing his eyes. He sank from his crouch to the ground, unfolding his short legs from beneath him. His hand never left Legolas' arm, as if severing the connection was akin to physically letting the Elf go and drown in his misery. For the pain Legolas felt within, he was not certain the idea was so outrageous. "It was not real," the small lord finally managed. He averted his dark eyes to the blue sky overhead. "It was merely one of his perverted tricks. Aragorn and Faramir… They would never conceive of hurting you. You know this."

Indeed, he did. But knowing a fact and believing it were two different matters entirely, and when the barrage of hurtful memories stormed his tenuous grip upon his reality, when recollections of previous denials and betrayals filled his mind, he found he could manage no faith. He shook, feeling dizzy and terribly ill, tears dripping from his lowered face. "They are all around me…" he whispered, his voice clenched with every bit of his terror. "The world is doused in shadow and blood, and I cannot move. The pain is so terrible, and the men are like hazy shadows slipping in and out of my mind. I see them, and I hear them laugh and mock my misery. They touch me. There are so many, and I can never fight…" His voice cracked, twisting under the weight of his turmoil. "Chains crack across my back. I taste blood. Agony steals my senses, and for what seems to be an eternity I do nothing but struggle to simply endure. And when I come back to myself, when I finally raise my head and put forth the tattered remains of my defiance, what I expect does not appear. I see not his eyes, and I hear not his voice.

"It is Aragorn who has taken me, and Faramir, and they bellow their joy over their conquest, deriding me for my cries… I do not understand, but somehow I cannot question. I beg, but they – they… Elbereth, make this stop…" He could manage no more, dissolving into a heavy fit of weeping. The hot, hurtful tears poured forth, rolling down his pale cheeks in a river of misery, and he could hardly breathe for the sobs wracking his slender frame. A trembling wail, deep and dreadful, escaped from his quivering lips. Only that could speak of his absolute misery. He felt arms come around him, strong, muscled arms that offered what strength they could.

"Let this go, lad," came Gimli's voice. It quavered, despite attempts to be firm for his distraught friend. "You must let it go. It will consume you. It never will heal unless you release it." Legolas did not answer, hysterical in his terror and hurt, his arms instinctively coming to wrap around Gimli's broad shoulders. "You must confront Aragorn. I have seen this in his eyes as well. You suffer from a terrible burden. Both of you do. He needs your forgiveness as much as you crave his comfort."

Panic and anger rose inside of the hurting Elf. He sniffled, choking on his breath. "No," he grunted, opening tired eyes to angry slits. "No! He has no right to do this to me! He has no right to ask absolution of me!"

The Dwarf said no more. Whether he was put off by the refusal was unclear to the Elf, but the prince found he hardly cared. He closed his eyes again and latched himself tighter around Gimli's familiar and steady strength. The silence returned, for his sobs lost their power though the tears came all the same. His world was dim, bleak and shrouded in shadow. Gimli could not reach him, really. No one could. The sun rained down fierce warmth upon them, but he felt cold and lost and so terribly alone.

* * *

A beautiful night came to Gondor. The sky was clear, dotted with the twinkling lights of thousands of stars. The heat of the day had abated with a brilliant, stunning twilight, the sun relinquishing her hold upon the land for the tranquility of a cool, calm evening. Silence had descended upon the White City, deep and serene, as the sky had darkened to a rich black. The citizens had retired from the day's business, contented with life as the last hours of the day disappeared. Minas Tirith was settling down to sleep, the hum of activity fading to the last whispers of friends upon the nearly vacant streets. All were quiet, lulled by the pleasant, summer night, and peace seemed nigh.

Yet Legolas could not sleep. He lay in his bed, turned onto his side, watching the sheer curtains flap in the gentle breeze as the wind poured meekly through the open balcony doors. The pale light of a mournful moon formed a lonely, misshapen ghost upon the floor, one that twisted and bent as the slow zephyrs sent the cloth hanging about the doors fluttering. This sad spirit lingered, tethered to the world outside and unable to venture deeper into the silent room, to invade its shadows and cast an aura of calm. The Elf watched it writhe, but never was it able to advance and offer to his suffering soul its solace.

He released a slow breath, rolling tenderly to his back. His body ached mightily from the day's therapy. Walking was a trying venture, and Arwen had told him numerous times that it was a task he should not rush. Yet he was becoming impatient with his own lethargy, and he had spent many hours after Gimli had left him struggling to overcome his shuffling, slow gait. He should not have pushed himself, for now his muscles were stiff and painful, and finding a comfortable position was impossible. He rubbed at his red eyes with long fingers. They felt as though sand was trapped stubbornly beneath the lids for all their infernal itching and burning. Then he dropped his arms and sighed heavily. He was exhausted, and he wished for nothing more than the comfort of oblivion to simply quit its irksome dawdling and take him. But his mind was swirling with thoughts, racing to overcome the strenuous anguish of the day, and he could not sleep. Consequently he was reminded of other nights spent as such. Despite all he knew to have happened, those restless evenings in Ithilien and this very room seemed recent. He still could not fundamentally make himself believe that, for all intents and purposes, more than a half of year of his life was simply gone.

Not gone. Shattered. Broken. Stolen and returned to him in a jumble of sharp pieces, each meant to prick the blood from his fingers should he inspect them for their meaning. A final torture upon his poor spirit. There was a great and vast emptiness within him, one that was hungrily driving him to fill its vacuous and gaping belly with substance. He had nothing to give it. He could never reclaim those lost days, and he was becoming increasingly certain that he would never truly know what had happened to him. Words might describe the experience to his ears, but his heart could only face the haphazard mess of memory and draw its ugly conclusions. Such finality did not ease the pain. He did not want to hurt anymore.

So he had shied away. It was becoming rather instinctive. As a warrior, he had always braved peril, facing the worst of dangerous with a firm heart, a steady hand, and a driving fortitude. He had never wavered before battle, even when the chances of success had seemed dim and small. He had suffered wounds without thought, pushing his body to its very limits for the sake of his friends and people, for the sake of this world. Pain had meant so little in the heat of the moment, and the concentration afforded to his warrior's spirit had permitted him so powerful a detachment. But now… Now his aversion influenced everything he did. He could not face the blackness that made his spirit shrivel. He could not fathom standing firm before that lost time and remedying his hurts.  _You are a coward,_  he thought bitterly, drawing the light blankets closer to his chin and shoulders as he rolled over again to face the darkened portions of his room.  _A coward and a wretch. Are you no stronger than this? Are you no better than what you were made to be?_

A solitary tear escaped from his half-lidded eye to roll down his nose and cheek, tickling him before dripping to the pillow.  _Stop! You will cry no more!_  Still, the command came without force. Gimli had blatantly told him that he needed to weep, to expel this misery before it choked him, and he knew the Dwarf was right, though he wished to deny it. Elf princes should not behave so weakly. He was a lord and a warrior, and it was not of his station to express his misery openly. And yet he lay there, and one tear became another and another. He had sent away Gimli and Arwen as well when she had come later with his supper to find him struggling to walk on his own about the confines of his quarters. She had expressed concern for his activity, but he had coldly brushed away her worry and bid her to leave him alone. The pain he had seen in her eyes had nearly crushed him, but the stronger part of him, the part chained to the foul anger and grief, refused to accept her coddling. He had told them all he had wanted to be alone.

Well, now he was. He had been a fool to think this was what he needed.

The soft rustle of cloth drew his attention, and he shifted yet again, twisting and turning to his other side to watch the moonlight struggle on the smooth stone of the floor. He shivered as the cool fingers of the breeze brushed over him, burrowing deeper beneath the covers as if such a thing could block from his body the press of the night as it did the slight chill. The curtains stilled, and then he heard something else, something quiet, slow, but decidedly rhythmic. As tired as he was, his senses were keen, and he recognized the steady noise immediately. Footsteps. The night was still young, he knew, and not everybody had retired. Servants and maids still traveled about the Citadel, preparing for the following day's tasks. But he knew that the person he heard approaching was no servant, maid, or guard. The gait was strong, familiar. Inexplicably his heart began to ache with fear and desperation. The figure paused outside his door, and the Elf found himself holding his breath, his eyes watching the shadowy slab intently. He was torn between an intense desire to remain in his seclusion and a burning need for comfort this dark night. And when the knob to the closed door slowly began to turn, irrationally he wished to hide.

But there was nowhere to go. The door opened and Legolas fought to sit up, pushing his back against the headboard of his bed and drawing his knees to his chest. Such was the way of his tortured mind. So quickly would his emotions spin from his control, gaining strength as they swirled and twisted about within him, and a mere panicked thought rapidly morphed into a paralyzing terror. Thought fled him, yielding to his fear, and then the door opened.

Aragorn stepped inside quickly, closing the portal softly behind him. Legolas had bitterly expected no less and yet wished to find it was his friend who had come to him simultaneously, and these conflicting thoughts battered him. Part of his soul quaked, yearning for the comfort his brother would provide him. Yet a mightier part fed upon his anger. "I have no wish to see you," he declared, his voice even, low, and quiet. In the heavy silence its softness was amplified ten-fold.

The king jumped, clearly alarmed by the declaration, turning around quickly to face the bed. His expression was one of tension, as if he as well was quite torn and tormented. He tried to smile, but the twisting of his lips seemed grotesque and weak. "Legolas," he said quickly, "you startled me. I thought you would be asleep."

"You thought wrongly," Legolas coldly replied. The strength of his fury was immutable. Aragorn's eyes widened at his friend's brusque declaration, and then he looked away in what could only be shame. The Elf's glare, after all, was piercing, his blue eyes narrowed hatefully and powerfully. The silence that followed did not give his ire cause to withdraw, and the moments were tense, long, and vicious. Neither had the courage to speak again. Eventually, Aragorn found it within him to take a few steps towards the bed. "Stay back," Legolas warned. He had not even thought to speak! The words had simply spilled from his lips, driven by the insanity, by the shadow.

Aragorn blanched. His face was as pale as the moon's light. "Legolas…" he whispered hoarsely in shock. He floundered, obviously unable to find the words to express what he intended. The pain the Elf witnessed within his friend's gray orbs nearly doused the raging fires within his brutalized soul, but overcoming this anger was not so easy.

"Leave me, Aragorn," Legolas hissed. When the frozen man did naught but stand and stare, paralyzed by the spite the Elf radiated in black waves, the prince's patience grew thin. "Be gone!"

"You would send me away?" questioned the man in a tentative, timid tone. It was clear Legolas' behavior hurt and dismayed him. The sound of Aragorn's pain, open and plainly stark upon the air, stabbed deeply into the Elf. But he could not for all the want of his heart abandon his defenses. Self-preservation indeed was the greatest constant. "I mean you no harm, Legolas."

Those tender words nearly shattered his resolve. Legolas felt angry tears fill his eyes as he pushed himself firmer upon the headboard, as if the sturdy wood might simply envelop him into its obscuring embraces. Before he could think to speak, the hateful words, dripping in venom, were out of his mouth, expelled by the power of his hurt. And he hurt. He hurt badly and deeply enough that he actually wished for his friend to suffer as well. The selfish, cruel thought promised no consolation, but he reveled it in for its momentary pleasures. "Did you think I would never remember?" he asked quietly, his tone steady despite the storm raging within him and the tears building. "Did you think that everything would just right itself, Aragorn?"

Aragorn shook his head. He did not respond immediately, and when he did, he voice was burdened with fatigue and anguish. He dropped his eyes, sagging visibly with the threat of what lay before them. "Yes," he whispered, "that was my hope."

The rage rose inside the Elf, a fury hotter than a rising red sun spilling bloody fire over the world. "And you would have me ignore it all, would you not? You would have me keep this misery within me and dismiss it for fantasy and nightmare! You would have me swallow this torture and act as though it does not plague my every breathing moment! You are a selfish fool, Aragorn, if you think I will do such a thing for your sake!"

Legolas' seething shouts were enough to stroke to life the fire inside the king as well, for he lifted his gaze suddenly, settling a hardening stare upon his fuming friend. "I did not come to weather your insults, Legolas," he declared coldly. "Gimli spoke of your toil, and I wished to see if you were well. I did not come to fight."

Betrayal bit through the Elf. Curse Gimli! Had the Dwarf no sense of loyalty within him? "You came to see if I was well…" He gave a little laugh, though the sound held no merriment. It was incredulous and twisted with the depths of his suffering. "Well, I am not well, Aragorn. And if you do not wish to fight, I suggest you leave. I can think of no other way to address you now. My heart is filled with naught but venom for what has been done to me."

Aragorn shook his head. "You know that I would never do such a thing to you!" he yelled. His eyes flashed with every bit of his desperation. "I know not what I need do to prove this to you… I would never touch you, never hurt you! The thought steals the very breath from my body, and when I imagine what you were made to endure at the guise of my hands, I cannot even will my heart to beat for the pain inside me…" Tears shone in his eyes as he stepped into the moon's path, the pale light washing over him and setting his form aglow. "You must not think such a thing, Legolas. It would kill me! Truly it would! I am your brother, and I would not forsake you."

"You would, Aragorn," Legolas countered. The man's impassioned declarations had unraveled his fury, but still he clung to the madness for its strength. "You would, and you did, for the sake of a dream I once thought of value. Perhaps you think me daft, but I see the truth. And perhaps it was not  _your_  hands that made a monster of my spirit, or your lips that took what was not yours, or your eyes that glinted while I bled, or your… your  _lust_  that tore from me my purity–" His voice wavered as he choked on the disgusting words, and he nearly looked away, ashamed and repulsed. Yet he refused to submit to his weakness. He refused to display his vulnerabilities any longer! "Perhaps it was not you. But you cannot say it was not your hands that touched mine or your eyes that saw my pain or your lips that bid me quiet… You cannot tell me it was not your desire for the world you envisioned that barred me from your favor. You sent me away. You asked me my opinion, and when it did not agree with what you deemed good and proper, you ignored me. I spoke my warnings to you, and  _you_  ignored me! Will you deny this? Will you deny that I gave you the power to stop this before it even started to no avail? Will you deny that I spotted his treachery before you, that I offered, as always, my heart and mind in your defense, to have you dismiss me? To have you betray me?"

Aragorn looked as though he had been physically struck. "Legolas, I–"

"I will not have your excuses!"

"And I do not offer them!" Aragorn snapped. "Do not for one moment believe that I have not suffered with this guilt. It is a black, vile thing that devoured my heart. It poisoned my mind and cursed me in every act. Do not consider me so cruel or blind. Nay, my rage and guilt nearly cost this kingdom and this dream of which you speak. I was its prisoner, and it was a brutal, vindictive captor."

Legolas' eyes flashed heartlessly. "You will have to excuse me, my friend, if I find your miseries small in comparison." The king flinched. "You did not wish to argue? Then enlighten me, my Lord, what is it you envisioned for this moment? What is it you believe good and proper of us now? What is it you dream?"

The man stepped closer to the bed, as if to grab the Elf and shake some sense into him. "Stop this, Legolas," he ordered, his voice torn between compassion and anger. "You talk of madness!"

"I talk of madness?" the Elf repeated incredulously. The pain was deep and cunning, and it mutilated any sense of peace. His heart was screaming, begging him not to continue in this tirade, but he simply could not oblige its call. "I do not believe so, Aragorn. My mind is asunder with thoughts and sights and sounds and horrible experiences, but this I do remember quite clearly. Yet I will oblige you, if you so wish. Let us talk of madness. It is all that has been left to me, after all, so I am quite well acquainted with its perversities and whims!"

"Aye, this illness runs deep within you," Aragorn murmured faintly. The wet tracks glistened upon his face as he beheld his weakened friend. "I should not have thought this would be easy. I should not have hoped you would simply heal. I am sorry." He bowed his head and sank tiredly to his at Legolas' bedside. The Elf resisted the urge to move away. "For so many days I watched you languish, damning myself for my helplessness. These hands are those of a healer, and yet I could find no remedy to heal your body and spirit. I do not wish to allow my ineptness fail you again. I cannot stand to face your hate! I cannot stand to feel this separation between us…" He raised his wet, imploring eyes, and whispered, "Tell me what I must do, Legolas, and I will do it."

It was before him, dangling like so much had these past days. Memories. Truths and lies. He did not know what to trust. So he simply spoke. His heart understood what he needed, even if his mind was drowning in emotions. "Tell  _me_ , Aragorn. Tell me everything, all of it, from the beginning to the very end, including the atrocities you wish to keep hidden from me. Then I will tell you what you must do."

And so the king did. Many moments passed as he spoke, slowing in their infinite march to listen with rapt attention to Aragorn's voice. Often did the king's tone waver, for the tale was not a pleasant one. From his lips poured faith the facts, the chronology of events that had delivered them from the peace of the Fourth Age to a war based upon desire, ambition, and vengeance. The story was long, and it was filled with horrors. Bloodshed. Brutality. Betrayal. Realities had split, and the truth, as awful as it was, served to unite them. The plot was convoluted, and its gore and gruesome twists made it intimidating. Understanding it was no simple task, for the path from start to finish was terrifying and twisted. Long did the king tell his tale, and he omitted nothing. And when he was finished, it was quiet. Perhaps there was more to be said. Perhaps the unspoken might have demanded its say. But it did not. The rest, once again, was silence.

Legolas watched as Aragorn lowered his head upon the side of the bed, the shadows sweeping down over the man's bent form. A choked sob broke the emptiness. The king shuddered, destroyed and despairing. Before them both was the misery now, in all of its hungry, hateful entirety. It had shattered them both, Aragorn to speak it and Legolas to hear it. For many days neither had wanted to face the past for fear of what damage it might level upon their already uncertain future. The shadow was vicious, and it wished for nothing more than to cut the final ties between them. Legolas was still reeling from the truth, but Aragorn whimpered further. He could hardly understand the words they were so greatly mumbled. "Leave this place. I  _beg_  you. I… I see now what I did to you, what I forced you to endure for me."

The anger returned, hotter and brighter for the horrors the Elf now knew to be of his own hand. He had been tortured and raped and turned against his friends. His spiritless body had nearly killed for this hatred that still lingered within him. As strong as this fury was, however, his sorrow was steadily becoming stronger. "You bade me to fight your war," he answered, his tone soft, subdued, and shaking. "No, you never bade me. I simply  _did_. As I always do." And this was true. He realized it then and there. His efforts to never become a burden, to prove his merit and mettle, to be  _perfect_  had never allowed him to question. He simply did what was expected of him, acting selflessly and thoughtlessly, because he perceived that was what was needed of him. This was the very quality his father had deemed his weakness as a prince. He was innocent and loving and far too eager to please. Surely he followed orders, but he supplanted his will far too readily when he deemed occasion to call for it. Thus, Aragorn had never needed to ask. He had willingly, with neither request nor reward, gone to Emyn Nimsîr. He had willingly built this colony in Ithilien. He had willingly ignored his duties in Mirkwood and followed his friend on a quest to rid the world of the One Ring and restore men to their rightful glory. He had willingly stayed in Middle Earth, suffering the mounting turmoil of the sea-longing, and never had Aragorn asked.

And he had come back from his stasis for much the same reason. The man had called to him, he supposed, though he had not heard the words. Still, he had somehow  _known_  that Aragorn suffered without him. Thus, he had returned.

No longer could he blame the man so completely, for he now realized the flaws in his own character, his pride and stubbornness and depleted self-esteem, had produced this misery as surely as his friend's willing ignorance had. But now he was left, stricken and sorrowful, to ponder another fact. Perhaps, in returning to this misery, he had again sacrificed himself for the man's needs. And perhaps, as it had before Emyn Nimsîr, this would prove as much a mistake. He was here now, having denied the peace Mandos' Halls had offered him, and he could not go back.

But he could go west. In fact, Aragorn was begging him to do just that. "He made me see," the man moaned despondently. "I had fooled myself with a vision of a perfect world and a peaceful era. With the ultimate dream. I was not willing to see it come to fruition without you, but this was a subtle point I never doubted. I closed my eyes and knew you would be beside me, and I  _never_  doubted. I was selfish and blind, but he  _made_  me see. I am so sorry, Legolas! I am so very sorry! Mayhap you might have found peace here in happy times, comforted by friends and stars and the woods of your new home… And surely that was no cause to keep you here. But now I know you will not. You have been broken so completely. I berate myself completely for demanding your return, and the only thing I can do now is let you go.  _Please_ , Legolas, I beg you! Sail to Valinor. Your kin, your  _father_ , will care for you and understand you far better than I ever can."

The words tumbled and twisted about Legolas' mind. They came so quickly and he could not make sense of anything! The revelation of the truth of his capture, return, and subsequent coma was still too heavy, too fresh. He could not contend with a destiny long thwarted by a now failing friendship as well! Was he truly so weak, so limp in heart and spirit as to allow himself to be molded by others? By fate? By this world and its cold absolutes? Did he not have the power to reclaim his life and make himself what he wished to be?

Had he not returned to this world for that very chance?

"Ask it of me, Legolas," Aragorn pleaded. The man finally lifted his head from the bed. His eyes glittered like stars twinkling in an inky, empty sea of night. He reached forth and took the Elf's cold hands into his own. The king's strong fingers were warm and rough. "You have never done anything but support me, strengthen me, encourage me in whatever challenge I faced. You fought my battles. You saved my kingdom. You killed my enemy and then returned, despite your toil, so that I could see your eyes in joy, however briefly, one last time. But I will not have you sacrifice another part of yourself for my selfish dreams and desires. Ask it of me, for I cannot bring my heart to ask it of myself. Tell me you wish to leave, and I will see it done."

The chance was before him, the moment vast and wide and filled with this opportunity to leave behind this misery. The pain was great, and it might very well crush him. He had been turned into a vindictive, cold murderer. He, a creature of endless love and life! He had been tortured and tormented, his innocence ripped and his will crushed. He had been betrayed on so many levels. He was exhausted, but the night was yet heavy and unending. Were he to leave and seek the white shores of the Undying Lands, he would know no pain. The scars upon his mind would fade as those upon his body had done. He would be among his brothers and father. He would never suffer again. His body and mind ached for this release, for this peaceful fate.

But he could not embrace it. For once, he would not do what Aragorn asked of him. He could not, because a part of him, the fundamental piece of his soul that had carried him through the blackness in search of light, would never submit. Perhaps Aragorn had called him back. Perhaps he had left the endless abyss at his friend's desperate bidding. But it had been his will, as well, that had opened his mind and senses and returned his estranged spirit to his body. It had been  _his_  will. Not his father's or king's. Not Aragorn's or Faramir's or Gimli's. Not Holis'. Not the will of the monster made of his warrior's power.  _His_  will in its entirety. He knew nothing so constant, so completely, as he did his love for Aragorn. And to forsake that now… Truly he would have been defeated. Truly he would be an Elf no more, a prince and friend no more, _Legolas_  no more. Truly he would be what Holis had wished him to be: a servant to a shadow that held no power that he did not give it.

He was what he made himself to be. He always had been.

"Nay," he finally managed, his voice soft, tears free from his eyes to cascade down his cheeks. "I will not." Aragorn's closed eyes opened, settling wearily on the Elf's face. "I will only ask you to hold to your promise." Something crept into Legolas' voice, something akin to a tentative hope and joy. It was borne from his beating heart, from his faithful spirit, and a rush of warmth chased away the chill.

The man, as lost as he in this moment, did not understand. "My… my promise?"

Legolas smiled through his tears. It was a weak action, but it felt glorious and good, like a ray of light chasing away the blackness. "You swore to me that you would stay with me," he explained, "as long as I needed." The pain pressed upon him again, and the brief instance of happiness could not thwart its merciless intentions. "Stay with me, then. I am… I am so afraid, Aragorn. These memories fill my mind, and I am helpless before them. They turn my world to misery. Nothing seems real. Help me.  _Please._  I am begging you. I do not wish to be alone. I cannot be. I cannot do this alone. It hurts, Aragorn. It hurts so very badly… Nothing is real."

"This  _is_  real, Legolas," Aragorn declared quickly. He rose to sit gracefully on the edge of the bed. He was covered in darkness, a figure in black, but Legolas was not afraid. This was not the demon from his memories and nightmares. This was not the betrayer who had laid ruin upon his soul. This was his friend, his brother. He was safe. "I swear to you. This is your world as it always has been, and it is secure." The man leaned closer, opening his arms to the Elf. Legolas abandoned his reservations, silencing the warnings blaring instinctively inside him, desperate for comfort. He sank into his friend's embrace, and the warm rushed over him as those strong arms wrapped about his beaten body. "I promise you. There is no illusion now."

Legolas shuddered against his friend's form, closing his eyes. "I am so tired…" he moaned. "But I cannot sleep. I… I do not wish to dream."

Aragorn squeezed him tightly. "I cannot stop that," he admitted quietly. "But I will be at your side when you wake, and I will remind you that a dream is but a shade. It has no power that you do not offer it." The Elf sank down, fatigued but eased, for he could believe this. He believed because Aragorn would not lie to him. "And then you can speak of it, and I will listen, and together we will bear this pain. It is not so strong, Legolas. You will see."

Neither spoke again. They were contented to be together, drawing strength from each other. The shadows were dark and deep, but their demons were gone now. Peace came to them. The pale moon rose finally, freeing itself from its tethers to shower the room in its ethereal grace. Legolas tiredly opened his eyes and glanced over Aragorn's shoulder to watch its climb. White and wondrous, its bountiful rays spilled through the open balcony, washing over them gently. And its tranquil splendor was the last thing he remembered, for in his friend's protective arms he drifted away to the emptiness of slumber.

Finally he was not afraid.


	46. The Bright World

Pain faded. Time was a powerful force, and as the days became weeks, the ache lessened. No longer was he plagued with its hurtful malice. No longer did it torture him with his hatred, with his suffering, with the horror of the truth. Of course, this was not to say the memories suddenly and thankfully disappeared. Nothing was so powerful as to erase the past, and the shards of recollection and nightmare were slowly pieced together in his mind. The pictures they formed were often horrible ones, but he was not dissuaded. He loved and was loved. And because of this, he was strong.

That night with its fierce, agonizing argument had been the first step towards healing. From that moment, no matter his shame, terror, or anger, he spoke of his returning memories. The nightmares spilled from his lips as they came to him; no longer did he hide his rage and anguish for the sake of his pride or fear. At times the jumbled misery gave him cause to doubt anew the validity of the world in which he now lived, but Aragorn was always quick to haul him back from the shadows of the deep recesses of his mind. His friend remained at his side as he struggled to regain himself, watching him with wide, worried eyes. But never did he push. Aragorn was patient and permitted him the sort of slow, steady pace he required. And when he was ready, he told his friend everything that came to him, everything he had endured then and continued to endure now. Together, they sorted through the lies, illusions, and nightmares to find the truth in his jumbled remembrances. Often the experience was terribly difficult and horrifying, and it commonly left them both in tears. But it was worth all of its discomfort. Revealing these terrors was a soothing balm, and though no words could make them untrue or less devastating, to bear them with the strength of his brother weakened their hold upon him until he could simply smile, laugh, and shrug himself loose of the shadow to embrace the sun. This was a slow process, but it had set him upon a road to recovery, and he was grateful to be free again.

Legolas sighed softly. Spread before him on the large desk of his room was a large parchment, and he looked down upon it, mindlessly reading the words again. There was little over which to muse; these were simple numbers and lists, a contract of appropriations the nation of Gondor was preparing to give to the Elves. The black ink was scrawled about the yellowed page in Aragorn's angular penmanship. He smiled faintly as he gazed over the lines of text. His friend truly had sloppy handwriting. Then he counted again the funds and supplies. It would be more than enough to see the colony in Ithilien rebuilt. Scouts had returned from the abandoned settlement some days past to inform him of its condition. The buildings were intact but emptied, and most of the supplies taken from the storehouses and transported to the White City. Inevitably they had been consumed during the war, when times had been dire and the need had been great. Aragorn was being overly generous in repaying what the Elves had forfeited, offering nearly three times what had been lost. The prince shook his head fondly, his small grin growing wider. They did not need so much wood or food or cloth. The goods were overly compensating, too grand even for a colony of humans twice their population. But he would say nothing. Aragorn wished for him to accept this, and he would.

The Elf prince raised his eyes again, letting the parchment slip again into a scroll. Then he turned to the open balcony, breathing deeply. Birds were chirping outside. It was quite warm today, the sun bright and the air sweet and heavy with the humidity of summer. Legolas approached the opened doors then, stepping on silent feet, and leaned against the frame. The sky was a deep, enchanting blue, and fluffy white clouds lazily floated through its sapphire currents. Minas Tirith was buzzing with activity below, and the sunlight set the city aglow. It was a marvelous day, and he really wished to be outside. It was the sort of pleasant morning that begged a fast gallop upon the fields. Still, duty called. He was amused at his own nervousness. Aragorn had called a council meeting at noon. All of the king's allies and advisers would meet to discuss the state of the nation, as well as the consequences of the war with Harad. This was no special event. He had attended the king's meetings countless times in the past. Still, somehow, this particular occasion had collected a special import. As he watched the scene before him, he realized the fact of it was not so mysterious. Nearly a month had lapsed since he had woken from his coma, and this was the first time he would act as a leader. This would be the first moment where he would address his peers and colleagues, where he would reclaim his status and station and reassert himself publicly as a Lord of Ithilien. Certainly everyone knew of what had happened to him and of his long recovery, physically, mentally, and spiritually. To say he was not embarrassed would have been a lie; he was not so humble as to ignore his pride. Yet he was more strongly concerned with simply ending this, with moving on his life. Becoming again the lord of his people seemed to be one of the final obstacles.

His mind wandered as he looked outside, his thoughts peaceably drifting. He was surprised how grand independence felt. Though the passing of the many months still felt unreal and foreign to his heart, his body had been keenly aware of the time spent immobile. The stiffness in his limbs, the coldness of his flesh, the general ache and heaviness of his form had finally abated. He moved now with his customary grace, his head held high, his actions lithe and elegant. He was free of that prison. He could care for himself as he always had, and no longer did he need the aid of his friends to simply stand and walk. He had been desperate to reassure himself that his warrior's prowess still remained as well, and so he had spent the last few days sparring with Elladan and Elrohir. For the most part, he was able to match the experienced, elegant Elves move for move, but he was yet unable to endure such strenuous work for long. When he tired, he did not despair, encouraged by the twins' friendly assertions that he would in time regain his stamina. They jested at his fatigue, remarking that, for once, they could actually best him in battle. Still, on the archery field, they were ever his inferiors. He had been afraid, feeling his arm shaking and his concentration waver, the first time he had fitted an arrow and drew back upon his great bow. But his shot had flown straight and true much to the joy and amazement of the watching Hobbits and Gimli. He had reveled in their compliments, their heartening words beating down the last of his doubts. His strength had returned to him.

And his confidence had, as well. And his courage. His compassion. His faith. Happiness came with these things, too, bringing with it a promise of peace. By no means was he fully recuperated from his ordeal. His body bore no scars, and, with each passing day, the signs of his suffering were disappearing. His spirit, though, would always carry with it the stain of the nightmare. It would never leave him, for it was a part of him. Even now, when the world seemed bright and teeming with possibilities, he could touch it, this shadow, and he could feel its weakly throbbing hurt. Sometimes, when a memory would suddenly strike him, he would sink again into the depression he had narrowly escaped. He was always strong enough to rise above the darkness, but he was beginning to realize this was a war that could not be won with a single victory. Forever would he be forced to contend with the scars upon his soul. He had accepted that he was not rid of this misery, but he was not yet ready to admit that he could never be completely free. In time, that peace would come.

There was a knock on his door, and Legolas startled from his thoughts. He released a slow breath to calm his heart, his stomach nervously twisting. He brushed his hands down his silver tunic to straighten it. "Come!" he called.

The door opened, and Valandil smiled as he entered the room. He tipped his head in a bit of a bow. "Good morning, my Lord," he said. "I have brought the last of the documents."

Legolas returned his friend's gesture, stepping from the balcony to take the papers from the other Elf's hands. He looked at them briefly. More formalities, really. In the time before the war, his colony had had a truly undefined place in Gondor's territories. The land belonged to the kingdom of men, but the structures and supplies had been those of the Elves. Legolas had brought his people there at Aragorn's request. Ithilien had languished in the shadows, and only the light of the Elves could see it restored. Though the Eldar lived in the lands of Gondor, they were not subjects of the king. They had their own lord, their own laws and liberties. It had been a strange sort of unspoken agreement between Legolas and Aragorn, one that had never been set into writing. Now, when the subject of laws and treaties was fresh upon the minds of Gondor's myriad advisers, they had insisted the accord between the two peoples be outlined. Brotherly trust and companionship was enough for the two lords, but the rules of state dictated otherwise. Thus Aragorn and Faramir had drafted a contract, specifying that the colony owned the land it had been given. In payment for restoring the Garden of Gondor, they were given rights to their own territory. The Elves served only their lord and their laws, but included in these legalities was a treaty of lasting alliance and peace between the men and the Firstborn. The kingdom of Gondor recognized the Elven nation as its own state, with its own standards, government, and society. This was hardly a novel notion, for it had been doing so for years. The Elves, after all, had been the first to fight for the causes of men at Cair Andros, and never had they shied from battle throughout the war. The idea of their undying loyalty never came into question. Still, something about owning the land, about being considered a separate, strong entity, was pleasing. This silly piece of parchment made it real and true. Permanent. He and Aragorn would sign it at the meeting.

"Legolas?"

Valandil's voice drew him from his thoughts, and he focused on his companion. His fair cheeks colored softly when he realized the other Elf had asked him a question that he had missed in his reverie. "I apologize," he murmured, walking to the desk to set the contracts among the appropriations papers. "My mind escapes me. What did you just say?"

"It is no bother. I simply inquired as to whether or not you have chosen a name for our colony."

Legolas smiled, his eyes twinkling as he turned to face his friend. "Aye, I have." It was the final adjustment that needed to be made to the treaty, hence why Valandil had come this morning bearing the nearly finished contract to his lord. Gondor could not recognize a colony that had no name. It had not been anything he had thought about as he and Faramir had plotted their restoration of Ithilien. So much had happened so quickly that most formalities had been brushed aside for the sake of rushing business. When the steward and the king had approached him about this documentation of their accord, the Elf realized he had been remiss, truly, in not granting their colony a proper title. After all, it had a standard. And now it was battle-tested and true. It deserved this permanence, this acknowledge. He was no great orator or writer, so when he softly uttered the name he had chosen, he felt slightly embarrassed for its simplicity. "Eryn Edhellen."

Valandil chuckled, and Legolas looked to him, his cheeks flushing faintly. "You believe it too trite?" he asked quietly, his expression one of hopeful examination.

His companion smiled. "Nay," he answered simply. "I believe it quite fitting. Eryn Edhellen. It suits us,  _all_  of us, well. I should like to live in a place named Eryn Edhellen."

The prince nodded, pride warming him as he smiled and gave the documents upon his desk a cursory look. "Good. I really deserve no credit, though. Master Meriadoc suggested simplicity as we supped a few nights ago when I expressed my inability to properly represent all of our folk in a single name. He believed our cause in Ithilien was a grander unity, and our cause… well… is reviving the forest."

Valandil smiled knowingly and folded his arms over his chest. "Among other things."

"Among other things." Legolas returned the friendly gesture. To say the Elves had taken it upon them this task to see the darkened woods of Ithilien reborn was by no means a lie. They flourished in all things verdant and beautiful, and to see the mighty forests so choked by shadow had been a painful injustice. Yet this was not the only reason. Of course there was fellowship, brotherhood, and loyalty. Of course there was a lasting love for this place and the people in it. But Legolas was beginning to realize there was another reason he and his kin remained. There was yet a place for them. They had fought a war, won a war, and they had proven themselves to be an invaluable asset to the men of Gondor.

Merry had been right then and now. He was still needed.

Valandil spoke again. "And you are wrong to say you deserve no credit, my Lord." The Elf's smile faded slightly, and his eyes gained a meaningful glint. "Were it not for you, there would be no colony to name." Legolas' face remained open and relatively stoic, but inside he flushed with the compliment. Valandil regarded him with only the utmost respect and admiration. The sight of unabashed veneration warmed him. To this warrior, he was still as strong, as heroic, as unblemished as he had been before any of this had happen. "We are truly fortunate to have the great son of a king as our leader now. Even more so, we are blessed that you return to us."

The prince flushed with the words. He clasped his friend on the shoulder, unable now to hide his pleasure and his face alight with a wide smile. "Nay, my friend," he said, shaking his head slightly, "it was not I who lead our people through this dark hour. You have proven your mettle. To rise above and assume such a station was no simple task. Were it not for  _you_ , there would be no colony to name, either. I thank you."

Valandil then grinned, his eyes aglow with pride. It had been fate, perhaps, that had brought them into each other's confidence at Cair Andros. The tentative friendship formed between them during the march back to Minas Tirith had almost been destroyed by the hateful war. And yet, it had not been, and that new bond had been enough to see Valandil and his people through to peace. "I stand behind you, Legolas. I loathed commanding our people in your place, and I wish to never do such a thing again. I am a lousy leader, I must confess. Often I deferred to the command of the sons of Elrond."

"You brought our people to victory. That is a feat worthy of admiration," Legolas corrected, "and gratitude." He squeezed Valandil's arm firmly before releasing his friend and returning to the mess of papers on his desk. His companion had restored something of his faith and equanimity, but he was still somewhat nervous. He wanted to be sure everything was in order, and he needed to scribe the new title of their Elven nation into the treaty. It was approaching noon.

"There is another matter to which you must attend, my Lord." Valandil's voice drew him from quickly scanning the papers before him, and he turned to face him. The younger Elf's face seemed a bit contorted, and in his eyes shone apprehension. "I have no wish to bother you with it, especially on a day so important as this. It has been nearly seven months, my Lord, and Velathir requires his due. He has come."

Surprise muddled Legolas' thoughts for a moment, though he supposed immediately such a reaction was unfounded. He had been told of Velathir's duplicity, and it had shocked him greatly. Aragorn had spoken of the matter with no small amount of anger and bitterness, the depths of his fury at the betrayal hardly muted in his eyes and voice. Since then, Legolas had truly not known how to feel. It did not seem real to him. He remembered the earnestness of his aide's gaze, his helpful words and eagerness to be of service. He also remembered the taste of that sweet tea, which he now knew had been laced with the very poison that had made possible his sickness and subsequent fall at Emyn Nimsîr. As was his wont these last weeks, he felt conflicted over the matter, unwilling to believe yet understanding the truth. Truthfully, this was a matter he had purposefully been ignoring. Aragorn had told him that he had left Velathir's punishment to Legolas' discretion, and the Elf prince had been dreading this moment. Perhaps he was a lord, and certainly he had been betrayed, but he cared not for doling out punishments. When he had seen his father and older brothers rarely do so in the past, it had only made him, with his gentle spirit and mellow, quiet disposition, all the more glad such a task would never come to him.

Yet this duty was his and his alone. He was not Aragorn's vassal or subordinate, and Velathir had committed an act of vulgar treason against him and his people. He could not allow this crime to go unpunished. He did not understand why his aide had chosen this course, though Aragorn had briefly and sharply mentioned that the Elf had betrayed them because of the colony's existence. That hardly made sense to Legolas, for Velathir had ever been eager to help in their endless chores of building their new home. How much he had not seen!  _Or chosen not to see,_  his mind added. He had never forced anyone to join him in Ithilien. When his father had decided to leave Middle Earth, he had merely announced his intentions to aid the men of Gondor in rebuilding their nation, and the Elves who yet yearned to stay had come to his ambitious project. Still, it was obvious Velathir had felt forced. A discouraging thought occurred to him. He wondered how many more of his people might have felt the same.

Even he had.  _But you would never have lashed out at Aragorn for forcing you to choose,_  he thought resolutely.  _You would have never betrayed him._  A tickle of dissension spread across his mind, and he was compelled to doubt even that. But a stronger part of him immediately denied the familiar inkling of shame, guilt, and anger sneaking about his heart.  _Never! That was not you. You know this._  He shook his head slightly as if to clear it, sighing quietly. "Send him in, please," he said to Valandil.

The dark haired Elf set his jaw and came to attention. "Yes, my Lord," he responded. Legolas did not turn as the door opened and then shut briefly. He felt surprisingly calm, his blue eyes narrowed, his heart still. His hands spread over the desk, the polished wood smooth and cool beneath his fingers. Flawless. He could do this.

When the door again opened, he turned. Velathir entered, flanked by two Elven soldiers, and each bowed to their lord. Their prisoner was despondent, his head bowed as he was led before the one he had betrayed. Seventh months spent in darkness had taken its toll upon the creature, for he seemed weak and rather emaciated, his shoulders slumped and his skin dull. He appeared wretched, defeated and repentant, and Legolas could not help but pity him. Torn and angered, the Elf lord raised his chin and narrowed his eyes. For a long moment, the room was silent and tense. Then Legolas spoke. "Ask what you will of me, Velathir," he said softly, his unblinking gaze focused upon the forlorn Elf. "I will hear your reasons."

Velathir did not respond immediately. His empty eyes stared at the floor. When he finally did answer his lord, his tone was soft and devoid of emotion. "I did not intend to hurt you, my Lord. You must believe that. It was not my wish to see you harmed so… so maliciously. When Emperor Holis approached me, he swore you would come to see the err in your thoughts… We are not meant to stay here. This is not our fate. We are not meant to serve the whims of men or fight their wars. How many Elves died for the sake of a cause not our own?"

Legolas faltered for a moment as the words rang true of a thought he himself had had. He remembered Tathar, his father's dearest warrior, dead upon the fields at Cair Andros. He thought of the many of their kind that had been slain in this war. He did these things and pondered, not for the first time, if there was truth to Velathir's words. He could not fault the other Elf for feeling as such when he himself had contemplated the same dilemma. Yet he was tied to this place, to his friends and this dream, stronger now than he ever had been before. On his desk were the words that would solidify their standing in Middle Earth. From that point, there would be no chance to go back and change their course. He would not regret it. "It was our cause as well," he corrected firmly, evenly.

"You did not have the right to make it so," Velathir declared. His tone was without anger or grief, though. It seemed as empty as his eyes, offering a simple statement as though fact.

"Perhaps not," Legolas conceded. He could really do nothing else as, in part, what Velathir said was true. He was perhaps a prince, a hero, and a lord, but even he found the act of deciding fates to be something beyond any one person. "But it has ever been the responsibility of our people to honor our alliances. We offer our help when it is needed, regardless of whether or not the cause applies to our own ambitions." The prince shook his head. "Regardless, this was never a choice forced upon you. I did not demand your presence, though I was grateful for it. You came willingly to my colony."

"I did not, my Lord," the other Elf sadly responded. Finally he raised his head, and a spark of teary defiance and anger shone in his dulled eyes. "You do not understand. My kin, my  _family_ , followed your lead, enticed by your lofty ambitions and eager to use this colony as an excuse to cling to a world that no longer deserves us. How could I leave them? How could I make such a decision? I am not so strong, my prince, as to spare my heart from such a misery. The toil would have killed me as swiftly and surely as any sword or arrow. The sea… it has taken me. However, in giving my loved ones a reason to stay, you have laid a torture upon me unlike any other."

Anger rose within Legolas, though his stoic face revealed naught of it. "You lay your blame upon me," he commented quietly. His voice held nothing of his hurt. "And you do so blindly and irrationally."

"Truly, my Lord?" Velathir countered. He held Legolas' gaze now, fueled seemingly in this last argument. "Your eyes betray you. Always this detachment, my Lord. Always this calm, this grace. Yet beneath all your fortitude, all your glib words and tranquil confidence, you are as uncertain as I. Would it have been so much to simply let this all go? Was this a dream worth saving?"

He did not pause to think. Once, a few weeks ago, he would have doubted, as beaten and brutalized as he was by the events that had transpired. Disillusioned and discouraged, he would have felt the same, lulled by the ever-present waves of the sea within him to the point where remaining in this hurtful place seemed utterly ludicrous. But he had healed. He did not wonder anymore. "Yes," he answered assertively. "Even knowing now all that happened, all the damage done to me, I would have done no different. I stand beside Gondor." This he said without even the slightest hint of misgiving. He did not question. He never would again.

"Then the Emperor was wrong," Velathir whispered, sounding despondent and surprised as his glazed eyes sought the floor. "Your will was not his to change." The dark-haired creature released a shaking breath, slumping and sagging. He was but a shadow, really. A shadow of what should have been. "I have wronged you. I believe my cause sound, though I regret the extent to which you and your companions suffered for my deceit. I do not ask for forgiveness or leniency. Punish me as you will; I will not contest it."

Now it came to it. Silence descended upon them. He felt the expectant eyes of Velathir and the other soldiers upon him, waiting, wondering how he would act. A gamut of emotions raged within him, and he found he was torn. He was sympathetic. He was angry. He was ashamed and sorrowful and hurt. But he was also resolved, and slowly that sense of calm that Velathir so clearly thought to be a lie overcame his hesitation. He sighed softly, breathing deeply. Then he began to speak. "Your crime was not against me alone. By betraying my trust, you jeopardized our people. You became an instrument to fell a king. And I will never know for certain what sensitive information you pilfered from the trust of privacy and sold to the enemy." Velathir flinched slightly. "And while the crimes you have committed against Gondor were certainly heinous, King Elessar is correct; he can convict you of no treason. You are not his subject. You are mine.

"That being said, I sentence you to this: you are banished forthwith from the Elven nation of Eryn Edhellen. The lords of the free peoples of this world afforded me latitude in this punishment, Velathir, so you must understand the breadth of this penance. You are forbidden to enter the realms of Gondor and Rohan. You will find no peace among the Dwarves. You will know no sanctuary in the Shire. You are exiled from the lands of the alliance of nations in this world. There is no place that shall welcome you into its midst."

The pale Elf grew even more ashen. He raised his head, staring at his lord with a horrific mixture of surprise and sorrow twisting his countenance. A single tear snaked down his white cheek. "Where shall I go then, my Lord?" he timidly inquired. "What shall I do?"

"It is not within my power to answer those questions or to absolve you. If it is the sea that beckons you, go to it. Perhaps it might grant you the peace you seek. I do not bar you from our fate, Velathir. I never have. Sail to Valinor. Be gone from this world. A penitent soul carries no weight the Valar cannot lift from it."

A sense of acceptance came to Velathir's eyes. He nodded faintly, saying no more. The two guards turned, preparing to lead the traitor from their lord's room and see his exile enacted. Yet, before they could leave through the door Valandil had opened, Legolas again spoke. "You were wrong. I  _do_  understand what it is like to be torn between this place and the next. I cannot say that the decisions I make are entirely right or even as firm as I portray them to be, but I believe, in the end, all roads lead westward to the sea. Whether the path winds or bends, it will carry us all to the white shores beyond the Grey Havens. Remember this, and fault not those who walk a different way. They will find you."

Velathir held his gaze a moment. Perhaps there could be no apology or forgiveness. But there was understanding. And as the Elves led Velathir from their lord's gaze, Legolas was quite certain that would be enough.

* * *

The meeting went remarkably well. To the applause of all the gathered lords, men of Lossarnach, Dol Amroth, Rohan, and Minas Tirith, Aragorn and Legolas signed the treaty finalizing the foundation of the Elven nation of Eryn Edhellen in Southern Ithilien. It had been an inspiring moment, the great meeting hall filled with cheer as the document was ratified. After, each had taken his seat and other matters had been addressed. The newly finished repairs. The appropriations. The fortification of Gondor in the event of future unrest. The return of citizens to Emyn Arnen. Overall the assembly was buzzing with good cheer and good ideas, each soul eager to partake in the plans for reaffirming the glory of the Fourth Age. It seemed to Legolas, as he sat silently, swelling with pride between Gimli and Faramir, that the council had held its business, or its breath at least, for his return. Eyes were upon him constantly, the sweeping gazes of friends, colleagues, and advisers, but these glances were not those of pity or disgust or worry. They felt genuinely relieved and  _whole_  again to have their Elven lord among them again. Their compassion and friendly joy at his recovery was enough to blast away his nervousness and make him feel rather silly to have ever suffered such anxiety. As they discussed matters of state, the war and all of its ugliness was truly a distant memory. They would never forget it, but neither would they dwell upon it. Life had an uncanny ability to restore what was broken.

Legolas had escaped after sharing a few words with Aragorn and Gimli. A gentle breeze had risen and swept inside the grand and open hall, carrying to the Elf's nose the scent of summer wheat rolling in the fields. Suddenly he had been utterly incapable of remaining indoors any longer, and he excused himself hastily, sneaking down to the stables before he could be caught by any of his friends or advisors. He berated himself half-heartedly; this was hardly the proper behavior of a lord, and he was acting rather childishly, like the little wood Elf that had forsaken and avoided his bath to scamper outside with the squirrels. But the thought made him smile, really, and before he could stop himself he was down in the stables.

Arod greeted him with a snort and a toss of his head. Legolas grinned as he stepped into his horse's stall. "Good day, my friend," he murmured in Elvish, stroking Arod's soft, white hair. The large, dark eyes watched him with a measure of joy and relief, and Arod pressed his wet nose to Legolas' cheek. The Elf chuckled as his mount nibbled on his hair. "I brought you a treat." He opened his palm, revealing a few of thick carrots, their green stems dangling as he raised them to Arod's mouth. The horse whickered gleefully, munching immediately on the vegetables. Legolas smiled, petting Arod's forehead as he devoured the snack. "But you must not tell anyone. I believe the kitchen staff would be quite cross to learn I plundered their stores."

"Your secret is safe with me." Legolas turned to see Éomer approaching, the leather reins of Firefoot clenched in his hand as he led his great gray warhorse through the stables. The young king offered the Elf a broad smile. His face was glistening with a small sheen of sweat, and his hazel eyes were alight in mirth. He was dressed in a fine red tunic, embroidered with gold thread, and rich brown trousers. "I see I am not the only one who deemed today better suited for riding than politics."

Legolas smiled. "I make no excuses," he said, Arod's wet lips slipping over his fingers in search of the final bits of the carrots. "Though I did not expect to encounter you here. Gimli seemed quite intent upon keeping you fettered to his tongue."

Éomer laughed. "Yes, well, I am well versed in the many techniques of excusing oneself from unwanted conversation. Obviously you are equally talented in such regards."

"Surely," Legolas conceded, "my father can attest to that."

"Such is our life." White teeth flashed at the Elf in a devious smile, and Éomer stepped closer to lean against the open doorframe of Arod's stall. Firefoot tossed his head impatiently, nudging his master. The young king of Rohan only shushed his mount's antics. "I must congratulate you, my Lord. Or shall I address you as 'my King'?"

A small laugh came from the Elf as he shook his head. "No, no," he quickly declared, brushing aside the idea. "That is not a title I plan to take for myself. When you say it, I feel as though I will look over my shoulder and see my father behind me." He bowed his head slightly to Éomer, flushing with pride, smiling. Indeed, "king" was never something he would readily label himself, but somehow hearing it warmed him greatly. He had never really imagined he would attain such a position. A prince, yes. But not a king, not a leader or commander. And now it felt real and true. Final. He could be a king, if he wished it. He was what his father had never thought he could be.  _Nay,_ he thought fondly,  _I am what he wished to protect me from becoming. But I am his son. There is nothing else I can be._  He shook his head slightly to part with his thoughts. "But I thank you."

"I deserve no thanks, Legolas," Éomer declared. A solemn note had crawled into his tone. He opened his mouth but did not immediately speak further, but Legolas knew what the king wished to say. The Elf prince had wondered when this moment would come. Over the last weeks, as he had recovered physically from his malady, he had had to contend with the guilt of his friends. Everyone, it seemed, had some measure of misery, some guilt plaguing him for matters that Legolas deemed often insignificant or otherwise uncontrollable. Still, if venting their shame, if offering apologies, would aid in their healing, he was willing to grant absolution. Thus, he remained quiet, patting down Arod and waiting patiently for Éomer to begin. Finally the young man spoke. "I suppose you have no wish to hear another apology." He gave a rueful, weak grin. "Were I in your position, I doubt I could tolerate the constant renewal of matters that should be long dead… but… if you would…"

Legolas turned, shaking his head. "I would," he said, "but there is no need. You only acted as you saw necessary at Emyn Nimsîr. The defense was a logical product of the land and our resources. The fact that it ended as it did is no ill reflection of the choices you made."

The young man smiled after a moment, and this time the motion was genuine and without tension or remorse. The awkwardness was gone from his eyes, the hazel orbs alight with relief and respect. He nodded and neither spoke again of the matter. It was over between them, though, like many of these lingering issues, it seemed a trifle thing. Yet often the resolution of simple hurts healed much.

The two of them remained quiet a moment more, enjoying the moment of silent understanding and companionship. Then Firefoot snorted, tossing his head angrily and nudging his master. Éomer laughed, petting his mulish mount. "Shall we be off then?"

Arod whickered, a glint of competition shining in his eyes as he watched Éomer and his horse suspiciously. Legolas grinned. "If you wish to ride with me," he answered, "though, frankly, I fear you will be unable to maintain our pace."

The challenge would not be ignored by the Rider of Rohan. It was so clearly a jibe to Éomer's ego, as the young king, like many of his people, prided himself on his talent with horses. He would not easily be bested, even by an Elf. "While I do not doubt your abilities, I must simply compare our steeds. Arod, though certainly fleet and fast, lacks endurance. At first you might outpace Firefoot, but I can assure you, we will catch you when he tires. Believe me, for I raised him from a colt. He will submit to Firefoot's superior strength."

Legolas laughed. "We shall see then," he declared. He, as well, was hardly one to allow himself to be defeated once faced with a competition. Gimli surely knew this, for throughout the War of the Ring, they had maintained a rather fierce contest of kills between them. When it came to matters of skill and endurance, he was always quite ready to prove himself.

However, their foray into the fields of Pelennor that afternoon was to be interrupted. There came the sounds of rushing feet through the stables, and shortly thereafter a winded, flushed page appeared before them. "My Lord Éomer! My Lord Éomer!" he gasped, bowing briefly. "Your lady sister is having her child!"

Éomer stared blankly at the boy for a moment, his gaze empty and his expression lax. It seemed as though he had not understood the announcement. Then his moment of stupor ended with a rush of panic and elation, and his eyes widened. "Blessed be," he murmured. He thrust Firefoot's reins toward the huffing young man. All thoughts of escaping to enjoy the wonderful day were gone in a blink and a breath. "Return him to his stall!" he barked. The boy nodded, taking the leather straps from the king's grasp. Éomer turned quickly, casting only a glance in Legolas' direction. "Come on!"

With that, the two of them rushed from the stables.

* * *

All of Minas Tirith, it seemed, had heard the news of the White Lady's labor by the time Éomer and Legolas reached the waiting area outside the healer's quarters in the Citadel. The manor was buzzing with chatter and speculation as the two lords picked their way through the hallways and corridors. In contrast, they had hardly spoken as they had veritably run, each swept into a sense of trepidation and excitement as they had barreled through the winding halls and many corridors. And when they burst into the small antechamber, they were met with three anxious stares.

"No word yet," was all Faramir said. The steward had momentarily looked in their direction upon their entrance, but he quickly resumed his anxious pacing, wringing his hands and digging his heels into the floor violent enough to surely grind into the stone beneath the rug. Legolas watched him, a knowing smile gracing his lips.

Éomer, like his brother in law, displayed little in terms of calm. His eyes were nearly wild with excitement, and his jaw was set in annoyance. He glanced toward the closed doors, regarding them darkly. The Elf bemusedly likened the expression upon the young king's face to that he had worn facing the Black Gate of Mordor. It seemed an equal evil, waiting for Sauron's armies and waiting for news of his sister's welfare. "How long has it been?" he questioned.

"Perhaps an hour," Aragorn answered. The king cast a glance at Legolas as the Elf came to stand beside him. His gray eyes twinkled in exhilaration for surely the same sorts of thoughts filled his head. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankle and knee, and turned his appraising gaze to Faramir. "I realize it is probably a futile gesture, but I suggest you simply relax, my friend. I have witnessed childbirths in the past, and I can tell you it requires patience."

From the steward's sigh, Legolas was quite aware that the young lord had already realized such a thing. Faramir turned. He was rather pale, his cheeks ashen, and his eyes were steeped in apprehension. "With all due respect, my Lord, such things are easier said than done when the childbirth you are witnessing is that of your own child."

"Witnessing?" Gimli huffed. The stout creature sat himself down beside Aragorn, crossing his arms over his chest indignantly. "This is hardly  _witnessing_. I swear I do not understand the queer and unusual customs of men. This is madness. Why must we wait without word or sight…"

"Peace," Legolas offered softly. "Oft it proves the best weapon."

"Infuriating Elf," Gimli grumbled, shooting his friend an annoyed scowl. "Only you could face such a thing with aloofness. You cold creature! Forgive us lesser folk our riled temperaments."

Coolly the archer lifted a single brow. "As always, Master Dwarf. I have endless patience when it comes to tolerating your lack thereof." His comment earned him a few angry glares and annoyed snorts, but he did not respond further to their vexation. His face was placid, but his stomach felt quite aflutter. He was grateful for his Elvish endurance and equanimity, for it seemed quite an unbecoming and silly thing to so openly admit he was as flustered as his friends. He watched with keen eyes as Éomer set to pacing, noting how the young king fashioned his path to avoid that of his riled and worried brother. Faramir resumed his own nervous steps, his blank eyes watching the steady plodding of his feet intently. Every so often he glanced towards the closed doors, his eyes filled with anger and worry, but then he would return to his heated journey.

The room fell into silence. Each succumbed to the pull of his own thoughts. Eyes grew glazed, lips pursed, and time slowly escaped them. Aside from the rhythmic thud of falling feet, the quiet was veritably deafening, and Legolas began to wonder at the strangeness of it all. His gaze drifted from Faramir's twisting hands and steadily falling feet to the steward's flushed face. Éomer passed him in his own repetitive walk, nearly brushing Faramir's shoulder, his cheeks shining in sweat. The anger and impatience twisting his visage seemed nearly comical if not for the similar feelings churning inside the Elf's own body. Gimli huffed, releasing yet another heavy sigh, and the prince turned his attention to his stout friend. The Dwarf still sat, grumbling a bit, his eyes blank and his head shaking as though in private conversation. Even Aragorn tapped his foot, jittery and uncharacteristically anxious as he stared absently at the closed doors. Legolas smiled, shifting his weight silently. His friends. His family. He was glad to share this moment with them. They were lords and kings, princes and commanders, warriors much adorned with legacy and battle glory. They had braved demons and monsters, saved the world from the darkest of perils. And they were all reduced to pacing, panting, nervous wrecks before the birth of a simple baby.

And when the shrill cry of new life rang through the still, stuffy air, five pairs of startled eyes broke from private reveries to slam an expectant gaze upon those doors. A silent moment followed, the emptiness swirling into a vacuum that sucked the breaths from their lungs and the thoughts from their minds. The world held terribly still, paralyzed for a torturous eternity. Then another wail followed. And another. And Aragorn smiled.

"Éowyn!" Faramir called suddenly. Apparently the man's patience failed him, the cries of his newly born child ripping from him any semblance of control. He grabbed the handles of the doors, yanking upon them to open the portal. Yet before he could twist the metal knobs, the doors parted, and a fresh breeze filled with the scent of flowers of summer heat was pulled through the open windows of the waiting area.

Arwen stood before them. Though the day was quite hot, she seemed perfect and untouched by the heat. Her face was calm, her blue eyes fathomless in her tranquility. Not a hair of her deep brown tresses was misplaced from its pins. Only the smock that covered her fine red dress was soiled with moisture. For a long moment, her gaze enveloped the males present, and each could only watch her, mouths agape and hearts held motionless. Then she smiled and bowed slightly to the pale steward before her. "My Lord Faramir," she said softly, her face alight, "your son has been born."

Faramir did nothing. Even to Legolas' boundless patience, his paralysis seemed endless. Then the young lord returned to his wits, and the color rushed back into his ashen cheeks. He pushed by the queen with none of his customary grace or consideration. The steward was gone in a flash of blue. Éomer made to follow, but the queen was quick to intervene, stepping gracefully before the young man. "Allow them but a moment," she chastised gently.

Éomer's eyes flashed. "She is well then? My sister? She is well?"

Arwen laughed softly at his stammering. "Of course," she responded. "Quite well in fact." Éomer looked to Gimli, sharing with the Dwarf a sigh of relief, both of their strong shoulders slumping in reprieve. The young king plopped tiredly into a chair, as though a great weight had abruptly been lifted from his weary form and his bones were utterly unable to support him any longer without the tension of that worry. Legolas smiled, watching as Gimli leaned over to pat his friend on the knee compassionately. This child would have many loving uncles, as it were, beyond that appropriated him by blood.

Arwen leaned downward to speak to Aragorn in a hushed tone, and though Legolas could easily perceive their conversation, he ignored it for the sake of privacy. The king smiled at his wife's words, a rosy blush coming to his cheeks as she swept her lips over them. Then the Elf leaned upward, her lush lips turned in a smile. She lifted a clear, blue gaze and settled it upon Legolas. "You look well today, my prince," she commented. She grinned slyly. "If not a bit piqued."

Legolas flushed when his calm was betrayed. "Ha!" Gimli announced, rising from his chair to jab a finger at the slender Elf's belly. "I knew it. Hide behind your calm eyes and cool words all you desire, you flighty fool. Ha!"

Legolas cast an annoyed grimace at Arwen for her duplicity. Only the eyes of another Elf could so acutely pierce a veil of stoicism. Ever was the daughter of Elrond a trickster as well. Though she was boundless in grace and wisdom, she was as ready and able to tease as the next. Her brothers had trained her well in that regard. "Fine," the prince finally huffed, his wounded pride buffeted and appeased by the good cheer of the moment. "If my submission should please you, here, have it. I was… worried."

"Nervous," Gimli corrected haughtily, his eyes twinkling in triumphant merriment.

"Nervous," Legolas repeated with a short sigh of irritation. "Does that make you happy?"

Gimli laughed, raising his voice in his glorious victory. "Endlessly," he managed between gasping guffaws, "and yet it is not even so grand as the look upon your fair face right this instant. Caught in a lie! The grand Prince Legolas Thranduilion, fabled warrior and archer, fearful at the cries of a mere babe!" As if in testament to that fact, the child wailed again, filling the room with its piteous calls and drawing the attention of all those present. Following the baby's howling came the muffled shushing of its mother.

Éomer leaned forward in his seat, bracing his elbows on his knees. His face lit in a huge smile. "Ah, he has the lungs of the House of Eorl."

"All babies cry as such, my Lord," Arwen reminded quietly.

Éomer, however, would not be dissuaded from his assertion. "That is a warrior's bellow, my Queen. There is no mistaking it. A rider's call, and a fine one, at that. He shall have a steed of gray, and he shall be taught to ride by the greatest in Meduseld's halls!"

Gimli leaned close to Aragorn and muttered, "Already the man has the babe in a saddle when he is but wrapped in swaddling." The king chuckled, shaking his head slightly. Éomer was far too enamored with the prospect of turning his infant nephew into the best rider Rohan had ever known to pay the Dwarf's jest any heed. Legolas rolled his eyes slightly, folding long arms across his chest elegantly. Though it was easy enough to lose himself in the frivolity and excitement, he felt reservation. The shadows returned, creeping from the dark crevices of his soul. From the black recesses of his mind they emerged, and he saw things again he did not wish to address. Faramir's back turned to him as the steward gazed out a frosty window. The paring knife resting upon a pile of herbs on the table beside his bed. His hand clenching around the handle. The rage. The terror. In that moment, there had been nothing but an immutable drive to hurt one of the men who had hurt him. When everything was peeled away, the layers of his life and love, was he just the sum of an unbalanced emotion? Had that monster always been inside him, hidden, controlled,  _contained_?

He had wondered this before. He knew there was no easy answer, and he knew he would think this again many times in the future. But now it served to darken the day, to sour this joyous moment, and his spirits, once aloft with exhilaration and pleasure, sank down into the mud of his own demons. The door opened. It was Faramir, his face bright and red with utter happiness, his gray eyes glowing with the sheer power of his ecstasy. He beckoned them all inside breathlessly, speaking quickly and excitedly. Conversation burst all around Legolas, but he felt barred from it. So suddenly the sun had disappeared. So suddenly all he had accomplished, his recovery, his colony, his regained life, felt dim and distant. This was not the first time depression had reclaimed him for its unwilling sport. It was a vicious and cunning demon, this despair, for random and sudden were its whims. As his friends and family stepped inside the open room to embrace this tiny bit of new life, he lingered. They did not understand. They did not think of it, really, the propriety of it all, but he did. He  _felt_  wrong. He knew he did not belong in this moment. He had hardly spoken with Faramir of the matters still unresolved between them. Both of them harbored yet such guilt. Both of them still suffered from hurts still festering. But where Legolas and Aragorn had openly addressed their miseries and healed in talk, Legolas and Faramir had, by some unspoken pact, decided that silence was the best remedy. It was uncomfortable, in the strictest sense of the word, and perhaps ignoring the pain was not the ideal way to contend with it. The two did not share so deep a bond as to sustain the damage promised by openly addressing their wounds.

And he did not deserve to see a child he had nearly rendered fatherless.

The same blood that flowed in this baby's veins had covered his hands. He shuddered. He could not help himself. The image made him nauseous, and he closed his eyes against the abrupt dizziness. He lingered, focusing on the steady rhythm of his breathing, of his now thundering heart, to calm himself. His hesitation did not go unnoticed. "Legolas?" The Elf opened his eyes to see Aragorn regarding him with concern upon his strong features and deep in his eyes. "Is everything alright, my friend?"

The Elf swallowed the dryness in his throat. He nodded, scrambling to pull together his equanimity. He cursed himself for this stupid weakness. "Yes," he managed, knowing his friend would not be appeased by the easy dismissal. "I just… Go on. See the child."

Aragorn's expression fractured in confused worry. "Without you?"

Legolas did not answer, for he could not find the words to explain how he felt. He was afraid. It was pathetic, and he hated himself for such a mindset, but he found he could not change this pained sense of guilt poisoning him. And because he was so helpless and so riled, he simply wished to escape. He turned, brushing aside Aragorn's concerns and making to run.  _How childish! Is this what you must do now? Flee from every fear, from every danger? Avoid what you do not wish to address?_  Gone now was his sense of accomplishment, and he felt very weak again.

But Aragorn was perceptive, more so than Legolas realized at times. The king grabbed his arm, denying him his retreat, pulling him back into the waiting room. "I know the thoughts that fill your mind," he declared quietly, firmly, holding the Elf's gaze with his own. "I know what it is you fear. And I know you are stronger than this doubt, than this weak moment, than all those guilty ideas rushing about inside your head."

"I am not welcomed, Aragorn," Legolas countered, the words rushing from his lips before he had even thought to speak them.

"Rubbish, and you know it," the ranger returned, his jaw tightening slightly. Anger rose slightly in the Elf, but it was quickly overpowered by realization that what his friend spoke was true. The two held each other's gazes for a long moment, strength and understanding silently offered and accepted. Legolas smiled slightly, relaxing. The shadows receded and all was right again. He nodded his thanks. Aragorn just shook his head, grinning himself. "Now, go. Surely you do not wish to have this babe corrupted by Dwarvish rearing."

There was no more argument. Together the friends entered the room, and they were greeted with all the light and glow of the sun. The rays spilled through the open windows to envelop Éowyn, encasing her with a golden shine. She sat up in bed, and though her face was tired and glinting in perspiration and tears, she smiled broadly. Her eyes were filled with so many emotions, but the power of her happiness was the grandest of all, and Legolas knew her joy before she even spoke. "Oh, I am so glad you have come!"

The midwives were still finishing cleaning the room, but they were quick to depart and afford the group some privacy. Faramir turned, and in his arms was a tiny bundle of white cloth. Immediately Legolas' eyes fell to the child the man cradled so tenderly. The steward veritably beamed. "My son," he said, apparently still quite amazed by the mere fact of it. "Look! Is he not marvelous?"

"Indeed," Gimli declared, his voice teeming with pride. It was almost as if the child were his own. In a way, Legolas supposed that was true. This baby was theirs,  _all_  of theirs, a sign of the strength of men, of life, of a future they still might possess. This was a sign they had endured, that they had prospered, that no matter the darkness put upon them they had risen to find the sun. "Well, I think I will be off to find our Halfling friends. I suppose they have located a particular nook and have settled in for an afternoon of puffing upon their pipes. Master Meriadoc will never forgive himself for missing this moment."

"I do not doubt," Aragorn announced, smiling widely as he stepped to the foot of the bed. He rested his hand upon his wife's shoulder. "Both of them were so excited."

"It is their own faults," Gimli said as he walked to the door. "Everyone thought to simply escape this day, to fitter it away with his own devices. But, much like his father, this little fellow–" Here he paused to coo at the child and rub a thick finger along a soft cheek. Éowyn laughed at the sight of the stout and gruff Dwarf behaving as such. "–demands attention every time he opens that little mouth of his."

"You are hardly one to talk so boldly," huffed Faramir, but his voice was without heat. Gimli chuckled and disappeared out of the open doors. Legolas watched his friend, feeling increasingly awkward despite his placid expression. "Would you care to hold him?"

Faramir's quiet question took the Elf by surprise. Shock washed over the slender archer, his eyes widening as his stoicism was all but trampled into nothingness. He shook his head, stepping back from the steward as though to run. "Me? Oh, no, Faramir. I do not believe that is wise. I have no experience with infants." This was true, at least. He was of the last generation of Elven kind born in Middle Earth. There had been no children after him in his family or the families of his father's friends and advisers. Thus, he had never had occasion to handle newborns, and despite his close friendship with Aragorn, he had had little dealings with men before the War of the Ring. Fethra had been the first child he had encountered in all of his long life, and she was a little girl, a far cry from a newborn baby. He really was quite ill equipped to contend with a baby.

Faramir's teary eyes glimmered as he smiled. "Neither do I!" he admitted joyously. "Here." And he offered to the Elf his son. Legolas looked at the small bundle, spying pink flesh beneath the folds of white. Trepidation coiled in his belly, and that awful sense of darkness whispered again its taunts in his mind. He felt tarnished, evil, unworthy. But beneath this, growing with every beat of his heart, was that same feeling of warmth, of strength, that heartened him when he held Fethra. He knew what it was. He was loved. He was needed.

So he accepted the blanketed baby into his arms. The small form he held gently to his chest, resting the infant's head upon crook of his elbow. And when he saw the scrunched, pink face beneath the white quilt, something inside him began to throb with a certain feeling he did not quite understand and could not quite explain. But it was pleasant and powerful, and he knew with this child, his life had changed. "He is beautiful, Éowyn, Faramir," he managed after a moment. The two parents merely exchanged happy glances. "What have you named him?"

Éowyn grasped her husband's hand. "Elboron," she answered softly. She turned watery blue eyes upon her king and queen. "We thought it fitting."

Legolas smiled, touched by the choice. Fitting, indeed! "Elboron," he repeated, looking again at the small life he cradled in his arms. The baby gurgled, the pink of a small tongue blowing small bubbles of saliva as he breathed. Tiny fists gripped his finger, and his eyes, as blue as the day, slowly cracked open. "A strong name for a strong boy," he commented softly in Elvish. The baby blinked languidly, quite obviously half awake, but Legolas hardly cared. He could barely imagine that moments before he dreaded this. "I am Legolas, Elboron, and I will teach you everything you ever wish to know about this strange world and all the strange people in it. Dwarves, Hobbits, Elves… and dragons. And about forests and trees. Would you like that?" Elboron only gurgled a bit more, his eyes slipping shut. Legolas chuckled. "Not today, then. But there will be many days to come, I promise you."

"It is so wonderful," Éowyn commented. Her voice was twisted with elation, and tears languidly traced her rosy cheeks. "To see you as such, Legolas! This is truly good. All is right now. You have come back to us beyond any doubt, and now my baby is born to a bright world." She laughed and sobbed at once, squeezing Faramir's hand.

Legolas smiled widely, his heart beating fully again, thumping with the power of this world and her vibrant song. He looked down again upon the child in his arms, knowing he had made the right choice. This moment seemed worth the pain, the suffering, the terror and anger and uncertainty. He was a lord and a prince. He was a friend and brother. And now he would see this child grow. It would be a wonderful thing, indeed. Conversation was humming behind him, and vaguely he heard the sound of approaching feet. Surely Gimli had found Merry and Pippin. But he stole another moment, watching Elboron sleep peacefully in his arms. "I made a promise, after all," he said, "a promise to help your mother make her garden bloom." He smiled. "I think I shall start with you."


	47. A Dreamless Day

The Houses of Healing buzzed with activity. It was morning, and the maids went about their business, carrying stacks of fresh linens and supplies to the appropriate storage locations. The sick and injured seemed alight with good cheer this day, and it was hard to remain melancholic, truthfully, for it was a bright dawn, and weather promised to be pleasant. The healers and nurses hummed and chatted as they worked, spreading the light of a hopeful future to those they tended. All traces of the chaos and disaster that had once pressed upon the place had been erased with love, work, and time. The shadow of death was gone, defeated, and all was as it should be.

Legolas watched as servants went about their tasks, tracing their movements with an ounce of attention in hopes of occupying otherwise idle thoughts. Though he stood still in the Houses' large foyer, impeccable dressed and completely unmoving, he was terribly nervous. To the untrained eye, his unease was all but imperceptible. The Elf lord was motionless, calm in all respects, his face placid and his aura tranquil. However, to those that knew him, the façade was only that and nothing more, and quite easily labeled as only a mask.

"You do not have to do this," Gimli said again. Legolas released a heavy breath, shaking his head slightly and feeling unnervingly jittery. The Dwarf had reminded him of this fact seemingly too many times. The short creature stood beside the Elf, watching the parade of activity before them with a suspicious eye. Legolas had seen him adopt this sort of doubtful glare more often as of late, and the prince knew of its purpose, as well. In the times before the war with the Haradrim, Gimli had often appointed himself as Legolas' protector when the occasion warranted it, or when the Elf was being especially pigheaded about his health. Since nearly losing his dear friend, the Dwarf had assigned himself this task of guarding the archer much more often. Anything at all that could potentially damage or threaten the prince had to pass through Gimli first. While this attention was quite irritating, Legolas was still heartened by his friend's concern. It would take no small amount of time and arguing to dissuade Gimli from his newfound charge. "You really do not."

"Yes, I do," Legolas responded quietly, padding his soft tone with what he hoped to be a note of vehemence. It sounded pathetic to his own ears, and he knew instantly Gimli would not be satisfied. He did not need to look down to know his friend had opened his mouth to object further. He took the initiative to stop the emergence of this argument once more. "Please, my friend. You know my reasons."

Indeed, Gimli did. They had argued last night over the issue, and again this morning as they had walked from the Citadel to the Houses. They had bickered, angered each other, grown frustrated, and then let the matter drop until Gimli again felt the need to make his objection known. It had been the cycle of the morning, and Legolas was quickly wearying of it. He knew his friend meant well, and that the Dwarf's insufferable protests were only borne of his unending concern for the prince's wellbeing, but Gimli was only succeeding in making this already difficult task more burdensome. "Aye, Elf, but that does not mean I must agree with you. You owe this child nothing."

Legolas did not answer. He had no response to such a comment. Truly he was torn over this matter, terribly, painfully torn. For weeks he had known of Fethra's involvement in his imprisonment and subsequent torture. Aragorn had explained the ordeal to him in its entirety, and he found himself at once shocked and angered. His soul was raggedly split, and he could not understand. He hurt in a way he had not thought possible, and the ache would not be abated by any measure of thought. Surely a child would not be party to such lust and brutality. Surely her words, her declarations of love, had been sincere. Surely she had clung to him, implored him with those wide, innocent green eyes, truthfully, not as an actor in some plot to see him destroyed and dominated.

False thoughts! He knew these things could not be true. At the very least Holis had bent Fethra's will with that pendant. At worst… He could not quite will himself to imagine what the other extreme might entail. It was too grotesque, too vicious and cruel, and he was not strong enough to consider it. He could not make himself believe that the love the girl had openly shown for him had been false, a ploy into which he easily and all too willingly played. The pain was too great. He had to believe such a thing impossible. His concept of morality and decency seemed inexorably linked to this one child and a dream he had once had of a life spent loving someone.

_Another dream. I am too easily taken by them._

Regardless, this was a wound that demanded closure. For days he had merely wondered, hurt and angry but not yet brave enough to face the truth. And when he had decided that he  _needed_  to know, that he would never find peace without comprehending the facts of it one way or another, another needling voice appeared in his head. The truth.  _What truth? What does it matter? And how will you even know? You have proven yourself quite inept at perceiving the realities behind smiles and words!_  He did not know what he hoped to accomplish. Would he take the girl with him to Ithilien? Would that need to protect, to be a father, re-emerge when he beheld those shining emerald eyes and pouting lips? He did not know. Everything seemed so terribly uncertain, and he did not care for the feeling. He was only sure that he needed to see her again, that he needed this to let go.

And there was simply no time left. He had avoided this matter, ducking beneath duty and hiding behind responsibility for days. This day, however, his people were returning to Ithilien, to their home. Thus, unless he contended with this matter today, he doubted he ever would. He did not know what he believed of the situation. He did know what he could accept. "Perhaps, Gimli," he murmured, his unfocused gaze mindlessly watching the stream of people before them. "But I owe this to myself." He said no more. Neither of them did. Gimli merely grunted, settling into an unhappy scowl. Legolas released a long breath. Regardless of whether or not his friend approved of his decision, he had made his choice. He would see Fethra again, if only to put the past to rest. Whatever happened from that moment…

"You are not the girl's father," Gimli muttered. Legolas clenched his jaw, at once hurt and relieved by the Dwarf's declaration.  _No, but I loved her. Love her. I… I must be certain._

"Prince Legolas?" The swishing of skirts drew the attention of the two friends. Legolas watched as Ioreth stepped through the rushing maids and servants. The woman seemed a bit winded, her face reddened, but her gaze was wide and friendly. "I had hoped you would come, my Lord." She wiped her hands on her apron, her smile falling slightly. "Though I… I… If you would forgive me for saying, my Lord, I wish to avoid further upset in her life." The lady dropped her tone, stepping closer to the prince and his companion. In her eyes now was a torn sense of devotion, compassion for both the child she had come to adore and the Elf she wished to help shining in the dark orbs. "I know not if you have been informed of the child's accommodations. A lesser noble of Dol Amroth has agreed to take her into his house."

Something in Legolas began to ache. He felt the blood drain from his face. "No," he murmured, his lips hardly forming about the words, "I was not informed." Suddenly it was terribly difficult to focus. He felt as though he had been physically struck, as though the world was darkening around him and he was alone. He came back to himself just as quickly and enigmatically, and he felt their eyes upon him, worried and wondering. His mind raced, yet he could think of nothing to say. Finally words simply spilled from his mouth. "Is… Is this man a…"

"You need not worry, my prince. He is a father, with other children of his own. I have spent much time with him, as he was wounded during the siege and recovered in these Houses. Immediately he fell in love with the child. She will be cherished in his care," Ioreth explained. She frowned, almost apologetically. "I am sorry, my Lord, if I have overstepped my bounds. Excuse me if I have wronged you, but you must understand. We did not know–"

"Thank you, my Lady," Gimli interrupted, and Legolas was, for once, grateful for his protective intervention. The Elf's mind was reeling. He could not quite make sense of this all, and it was seemingly pounding into him so quickly. Rarely in his life had he felt so utterly confused, lost, and helpless. Once had been when his mother had abruptly been taken from him. Another had occurred outside Moria, as the shattered Fellowship had struggled with the shocking loss of Gandalf. Deaths, they were, sudden, awful deaths.  _Silence these thoughts! She is not dead. This man will care for her better than you ever could._  Yet the idea was little consolation. He was hurting in a way he never really had before. Any thoughts of Fethra's duplicity fled him. He felt betrayed on a deeper level, in a way that was undeniable and dreadfully permanent. Time had taken much from him. Until now, he had not even realized it. Time had taken Fethra.

"Legolas? Lad?" Gimli touched his arm, pulling him from his reverie. The Elf startled and looked down at his friend. The Dwarf regarded him with darkened, troubled eyes. "Are you well?" He did not trust himself to speak, so he merely nodded. "It is likely for the best." The prince bowed his head. It hurt to think such a thing, even though he knew it to be true. He knew the problem his silly fantasy would have faced. Years would pass, and Fethra would age. He would not. Inevitably they would be forced to part, faced with a pain neither of their races often suffered. With the man from Dol Amroth, she would live a normal life. She would grow among her own, wed, and have children. These were things that would prove difficult in a colony of Elves. He liked to believe himself strong and wise enough to cast aside such prejudiced notions, but he was not a fool. He knew she would live an easier life among men.

"You must understand," Ioreth said empathetically. She laid a hand upon his shoulder, bothered obviously by his crestfallen expression. "She believes you are dead. She has for months."

"That is a lie," Legolas snapped, angered by the perpetuation of such a falsehood. He was not dead! Surely the child deserved to know the truth! Still, through the storm of hurt, sorrow, and anger, he realized the fact of the matter: nobody had wanted to face this problem. Nobody was certain of the proper course, and time had dictated action by necessity. What was best for the child? Truly he did not know. But his own heart was pulsing in furious misery. "I want to see her."

"Legolas…"

The Elf shook his head. " _Please._ "

The Dwarf and the woman shared a riled look. Legolas refused to be persuaded by their silent waves of concern. He wanted this. He needed this. Ioreth sighed softly, though not in anger or annoyance. "She is out back, my Lord, in the garden. If you would follow me." She turned then and led them through the Houses. Legolas trailed silently behind her. As he walked, picking a path through the busy halls, apathy began to shield his hurting heart. He had not known what to expect when he had decided to close this wound this morning, but the notion of losing Fethra had never crossed his mind. He was angry, and though he knew the emotion to be irrational, he could not shake it from himself to attain a measure of peace. He wanted more than this. He did not know what he wished, but certainly he desired something greater, something fuller, than this empty conclusion.

No. He did know what he wished. He wanted to see the child as though nothing had happened. He wanted to feel as he had before he had been betrayed, before he had been captured and tortured and trapped in an illusion. These were impossible hopes, but he wished them all the same. He desired greatly to have everything as it was, even though nothing could ever be the same.

The anger swelled inside him as Ioreth led him to the gardens. But when the sun washed over them, when the morning opened its golden arms to them, the rage and grief was blasted away. The laughter of children filled the air, melodic and pure. The breeze brushed by them, ruffling the leaves of the trees adorning the meticulously kept gardens. The Elf stood there, hidden in the shadows of the doors, watching as the children played with wooden blocks and stuffed toys. They sat beneath the drooping embrace of a great, old tree, the leafy branches dangling protectively about them. Immediately he spotted Fethra, and when he did, the ache inside him all but disappeared. The young girl sat with a few other children. The mess of her red hair was carefully combed and decorated with ribbons, and she sported a new, green dress. She laughed at the antics of one of the boys, and the sound of it filled the ancient Elf with a sort of emotion that was new and wonderful. He stood still, one hand braced upon the stone archway, watching and listening and feeling nothing save for the pleasant warmth of the sun.

"Legolas?" Gimli was beside him. The Dwarf watched him worriedly. "Elf?"

"It is alright," the prince finally whispered. He watched them play, and he began to understand. All doubts of her love for him faded. She had not betrayed him. If she had acted to bring about his downfall, she had done so unwillingly and unwittingly. She was but a child with a child's innocent devotion, and he had been a fool to have ever even thought otherwise. She was as much a victim of cruel plots and devastating events as any. The love she had borne for him and he for her had been true and genuine. He knew this deep inside his heart, and the agony lost its fierce anger. She had never harmed him. In fact, she had saved him.

But more than this he knew the end had come. He had played his part. He had done all he could. She was happy now, happy among the children, living a life free of murder and fire and fear. He had rescued her, but he was not meant to linger in her world. She was safe now. She was home.

"It is alright," he repeated, his soft voice lifted upon the wind. He narrowed empty eyes, sadness and happiness at once beating through him. Yet in their war he found his peace. "It will be alright now."

"You have changed your mind?" asked the Dwarf.

The Elf smiled slowly, turning at last his piercing blue gaze to his friend. "Aye," he answered, "you might say so." Gimli grinned as well. The Dwarf turned his analytical stare to the children again, crossing his arms over his stocky chest and leaning against the door frame. Legolas released a long breath.  _This is not my place. I will not disturb her stability._  He stood there a moment more, feeling nothing in particular. A general sense of quiet, of completion, came over him. He was whole. He was free, too. _I know she will be happy._  "I am ready."

"Good," Gimli said. Ioreth nodded to them both, pleased that Legolas had found his peace and the life they had created for the child remained as steady and true as they had hoped. "Let us be off, then. Thank you, my Lady." Ioreth bowed, smiling broadly at them and murmuring a polite "good day" before leaving them to their business. The two friends remained a moment longer, the Elf watching the children, the Dwarf observing the Elf. No longer did Gimli push or prod. This wound had closed, and there was no rush to see it forgotten. He would permit Legolas this moment, and the prince was appreciative. He simply wished to watch the child in her frivolity and glee this last time. Their roads might diverge, but his memory would preserve this instance. She might forget him as time made distant this nightmare, but he would never forget her, not in all of his endless days to come.

It was beautiful. He smiled in pleasure. Then he turned to leave. As he did, a conversation floated upon a warm zephyr to his ears. He paused in the doorway.

"That's silly! Trees can't talk to you!"

The boy's proclamation was met with a bit of a familiar sigh. Then a voice reached forth to the Elf, caressing his spirit with a parting kiss. "Yes, they can! Only when you hold very, very still and listen very, very hard… They sing!"

And the wind rose and the leaves rustled. The trees did sing, and the children laughed.

_She will remember me._

Legolas dropped a hand firmly to Gimli's shoulder. "Come," he said, "it is time to go."

* * *

Not long after, a great group of men and Elves was gathered in the fields of Pelennor. The standards of Eryn Edhellen and the Steward of Gondor flew upon the warm winds of the day that blew across the golden plains stretching about the White City. The flood of people stretched along the road, the refugees veritably bubbling with excitement as today they would return to their long abandoned homes and dreams. Now they simply waited for their lords to finish their business inside Minas Tirith's grand gates, many standing tall upon their toes to glance into the courtyard teeming with soldiers, delegates, and horses.

Legolas patted Arod's neck after he finished fastening the horse's bridle and checking his bags. His bow and quiver were fastened to saddle, along with a few belongings, including the rolled parchments finalizing his nation's existence. He breathed deeply as he glanced over them again. Everything was as it should be. The sun was bright, and the day was yet new. The journey would be pleasant.

"It is not as if we leave for forever, Elf," Gimli chided, folding his arms over his chest as he watched Legolas glance once more. The Dwarf stood at Arod's left, and he tipped his head towards the courtyard's center. The small lord had decided to journey with him to Ithilien and spend a few days aiding the Elves in reclaiming their homes. His own people would await his return in the White City. Though Gimli claimed it was simply an offering of his services as an organizer and architect, Legolas knew his decision hid a greater purpose. The small creature was simply not yet ready to leave the Elf's side. Frankly, Legolas was glad for the company. He felt stronger somehow knowing Gimli was there to aid him. This was a grand task. He knew he did not need the help, but he was encouraged by its existence.

He was also glad for the company, though he would not admit it. As silly as it was, he had grown accustomed to the security his friends unconsciously provided him. He still felt slightly weak in mind and body at times, and returning to an empty keep littered with memories of insomnia and doubt was decidedly unappealing. Gimli was simply too observant, realizing Legolas' needs. The creature truly was amazing! Gimli nudged him, drawing from his thoughts. "Come on. They wait for us."

The two friends made their way through the dense throng of those gathered, and as they walked, the Elf wondered again at the long road that had led them to this place. He glanced upward. The sun was a bright, blinding force, yet new in the east, and the flags of the White Tree flapped on the breeze atop the Gateway. It seemed incredible to have come so far to reclaim what should have never been threatened. But they had, and the time lost in his life seemed no longer so great a thing. Such it was that he had walked this road. Such it was that fate had brought him to this place on this day.

And such it was that he would begin the last part of this twisted journey, though these final steps would not carry him through shadow or misery. He would return home, not changed, truly, but very different. Stronger, somehow. Weaker in other ways, yet affirmed. Resolute.

Such was life.

"Legolas! Finally!" The Elf smiled as Pippin and Merry approached, each grinning widely. The Hobbits were both dressed for travel, wearing still their gray Elven cloaks gifted to them from the Lady Galadriel years ago. Merry shook his head in mock disgust. "It's truly unlike you to be so selfish."

"And lethargic," Pippin supplied, waggling his finger.

They shared a look. "And  _late_ ," both chastised with exaggerated sighs.

Gimli chuckled, nudging his lithe companion forward. "Ah, go easy on him, my small friends," he reminded. "His long winter has dulled his senses. Even an Elf loses his prowess."

"Alas, my stout companion, I at least had a prowess to lose," Legolas countered, steeling his face into a mask of utter chilly fury. It was an expression he knew he had inherited from his father; he had been told on numerous occasions, particularly by Elrond's offspring, that the glare was worse than the harshest scowl any parent could possibly muster and darker than Mordor's foulest demons. He rarely used such a weapon for its power. After all, he had been on the receiving end of that scowl many times in the past.

"Oh, ho! Clever, Elf!" Gimli returned. "Your sleep has not dulled your wit."

They grew silent after that. This was, of course, an occasion for parting, and each of them knew that fact. The time had come for the Hobbits to return to the Shire. With Elboron's birth and Legolas' awakening, there was truly no cause to remain in the White City. Business demanded their attention in Hobbiton, and they had been away far too long. These warm summer days of good cheer and fine company had to end, for autumn would not delay in its approach, and then winter would come again. As dark times disappeared, so went into memory hours spent in laughter and love.

The moment of awkward pain passed, and the two Hobbits afforded the pair broad smiles. Legolas dropped to one knee to embrace each of his friends, engulfing first Merry and then Pippin into his arms. They hugged him tightly. "Ah, it's so good to see everything right again!" Merry declared jovially once they parted. He sniffled, wiping at his left eye slightly. "We'll have quite a story to tell to Sam."

"Oh, won't he be envious," Pippin remarked. He donned his best portrayal of the stout and stalwart Gamgee to the amusement of his comrades, shaking his head most dramatically at an imaginary malady. "'Oh, that won't do at all! Not at all!'" Gimli laughed. "He might have complained, but he enjoyed the adventure of it. He will have missed this." The small Took offered a teary smile. "And he will have missed you."

"Send him our regards," requested Gimli, as he too embraced each of the Hobbits. When they were done, the Dwarf smiled, and his eyes as well seemed to twinkle with something more than simply the sun. "Safe journeys to you both. Perhaps one day, if our business allows it, we will travel to your Shire and see its fabled lands. It is a place I have always wished to visit." He nudged Merry conspiratorially. "Provided you can offer up a bit of that Longbottom leaf for your dear, old friend! Eh, what say you, Elf?"

Legolas smiled. "One day," he declared, nodding. "There are trees there with whom my people have not spoken for centuries. I should like to be our emissary." His companions smiled knowingly. The Elf tipped his head, his eyes twinkling in the sunlight. "Be well, my friends, until we next meet."

Merry bowed his head slightly. "And you, also."

"I am glad you came," the Elf prince added, returning the gesture respectfully. "Perhaps you believe it a simple thing, but you did much for me with your mere presence. I… I do not remember many things, but I am certain I knew you were there. For me. I am grateful." The words were maybe simple and stoic, but the bond of friendship afforded them all a measure of understanding. The Hobbits knew the depths of Legolas' gratitude. Pippin grasped his slender hand once in an affectionate squeeze. Then the two small creatures turned and disappeared into the crowd departing Minas Tirith.

The Dwarf and the Elf stood still in the mess of people for a moment, but they were not long alone. A page gave a loud proclamation of the king's arrival. The people parted to allow their lord passage. Legolas smiled.  _Late, indeed._

Aragorn stepped slowly, though his dear friend could tell the man was itching to move quickly toward them by the modicum of vexation gracing his eyes. Arwen was upon his arm, dressed in a sheer, flowing gown of pleasant green, and she looked radiant in the morning sun. Behind them was a retinue of attendants, and following these, bearing a few books, were Elladan and Elrohir.

The king, garbed in royal splendor, offered the Elf a look of exasperation and a sigh as he bowed. Legolas kept a silly grin of amusement from his face as he returned the gesture. Once they were close together, Aragorn muttered in Elvish, "I told them this need not be such a formal event! I nearly begged! But  _they_  refused to listen! Of all the silly,  _unnecessary_  things…"

By "they" Legolas immediately inferred Aragorn was speaking of his advisers, as the king typically found them to be a chastising annoyance. The prince spotted a few of the men in the group behind the king and immediately knew his supposition to be correct. He grinned, enjoying his friend's discomfort. Aragorn was always highly entertaining with flustered. "Such it is to be king, my Lord."

Aragorn shook his head at the comment. He opened his mouth to speak again, but before he could, the sound of clopping hooves reach their ears. Legolas and Gimli turned to see both the Riders of Rohan and the steward's entourage approaching. Éomer dismounted from Firefoot gracefully, and he approached them with his characteristic confidence in his step. It was relieving to see it return. On the other side of the group, Faramir stepped down from Hasufel. The steward glanced once to his wife, who sat in a carriage to their left. In her arms was a small bundle of white cloth Legolas knew to be Elboron. Éowyn smiled, nodding to him, and he continued toward the assembled group of friends. Éomer clasped him on the arm at his approach. The young king smiled. "So this is it, then." He looked to his friends. "It seems a strange thing to finally come to this moment, given all the times reaching this point seemed all but impossible."

They were silent then. It was a solemn instance, to part now after suffering such misery together. This war, this struggle, had bonded them all in such a tight link. Returning to separate worlds and separate realms brought with it a sort of pain that was necessary, inevitable, and grotesquely sweet. This was the sort of hurt, after all, they had longed to experience. When moments had been dark, when the tale had turned and twisted so very cruelly, buried in each heart and mind had been the undying wish to simply return to a sense of normal life, to come to a time and place where the circumstances that had brought them together had ended and they would all return to lives interrupted. To arrive at that moment was incredible.

"Ah," Gimli finally grumbled, "this is folly. We will see each other again." But his voice was rough with emotion, and even his eyes were misty. Legolas smiled softly as the Dwarf huffed, embarrassed at his display. The Elf dropped his hand to his companion's shoulder. Gimli cursed in his own tongue, shaking his head. Then he just succumbed. "This is pathetic! Come here, laddie!" Aragorn dropped to his knees, caring not about his fine clothing, and embraced his stout friend.

This simple act dissolved the tense formality of the moments, and titles and ranks were cast aside for gestures of love and camaraderie. Hugs were shared, happy tears dampening cheeks. Éomer embraced Legolas, laughing and forcing the Elf to swear he would never again give them such a scare. Plans were made to reschedule the ride that had been interrupted. Then the sons of Elrond were quick to steal the prince's attention, each offering a sign of respect and parting as customary in their culture. Then they warmly hugged as was the wont of their hearts. To their dear, old friend Elladan gave the books he carried. "These we found," he explained, "in father's library. They are ancient tomes of Elvish law. Father's foresight was greater than we anticipated." He smiled fondly. "Surely he left these for you."

Legolas accepted the offered, ancient books. There were weathered with likely many readings, but their leather binding was soft and the flowing, golden script sewn into the covers still glinted. The prince was touched by this gift, truly and deeply, and a warm sense of pride and responsibility caressed his spirit as the sun did his skin. "Thank you," he said. "I will treasure them with no less fervor and vigilance than Lord Elrond did."

"Of course you will," Elrohir declared. "And I will be glad to see Eryn Edhellen prosper."

"You will always be welcomed in our halls," Legolas assured. Briefly he embraced the twins once more, and then the three parted.

Arwen stood behind them, and she smiled tenderly as she stepped into the prince's arms. For a long moment neither Elf moved, simply basking in the familiar, loving essence of one another. Legolas closed his eyes, breathing deeply of her, holding her tightly to his chest. They did not speak, for they did not need words to understand the devotion between them. On a level deeper than voice and sight and touch two spirits became one. And when he released her and looked into her eyes, he felt what she did not need to say. She was thanking him for so many things, and though he believed he did not deserve her gratitude, he simply smiled. His long fingers cupped her face, and he kissed her brow. She lingered in the moment, and then she stepped back to stand at her husband's side.

Aragorn smiled weakly. His eyes were filled with so many things, the gray orbs a calm, swirling sky of hope and heart. The echo of a moment so long ago, when there had been a great distance between their souls, lingered as a ghost passing into the night. Such a memory of hurt and helplessness would never fade in whole, but the power of friendship was so much stronger. It always had been. Legolas offered his own grin, knowing he and Aragorn would never again be parted by darkness. Time would pass, and eventually the moment would come when this road they had so long walked together would split. The man would die and the Elf would leave this world. But even then a good life spent in each other's company would soften the pain. Never again would they part in doubt. This was what they had fought to preserve. King and prince. Elf and man. Brother and brother. It was something no other could touch.

And so they embraced. They would meet again in some month's time, but this moment felt monumental to them both. Aragorn drew a breath shaking in a small sob as he wrapped his arms around Legolas. Then they parted. "Do you dream, Legolas?" Aragorn asked, his expression open and his eyes teeming in watery faith.

The Elf smiled. "Nay," he answered, "not of late. And I do not believe I shall again." He drew Aragorn into his arms again and closed his eyes. "Nay, not ever again!"

* * *

And so the company left Minas Tirith. Their road took them east, through the rolling fields of Pelennor, across the shining waters of the Anduin, and into the lush forests of Ithilien. Though hearts were anxious to again see their homes, they proceeded at a languid pace. There was no need to rush or run. The long line of soldiers and commoners traveled with a light in their eyes and a spring in their steps. Led by their lords, they knew again that this place was safe, that the world was bright.

Ahead the road parted. They had walked most of the day, slowly pushing and pulling carts of supplies for their respective establishments through the uneven terrain. Many people were tired, especially the children and elderly, and the Elves and men had eagerly aided those less able to travel. The fork in their path was a welcome sight, and they paused at it. They had nearly reached their home.

Legolas drew Arod to a stop. The path beneath their feet split, and a corridor of dense, mossy trees appeared on either side. One road led north. The other bent in a southerly course. One led to Emyn Arnen and the other to Eryn Edhellen. He looked at each, tracing the road with his keen eyes, watching the waning sun play upon the dried leaves scattered upon the paths. There was a snort behind him, and he turned upon his mount's back, watching as Faramir directed Hasufel to rest beside Arod. The gray stallion tossed his head uncooperatively and then nipped at Arod, an act that not at all pleased his equine companion. As stoic and aloof as his master, the white horse settled an angry, cold glare upon Hasufel, effectively stilling him.

Faramir sighed softly, drawing the Elf's attention from the antics of the animals. The steward tipped back his head, the breeze brushing sandy locks of hair across his brow. He breathed deeply. "I have so missed this smell," he declared thoughtfully.

Gimli huffed behind Legolas. "The stench of rotting leaves and mildew, the detritus of animals, the miserable aroma of wet soil…"

The ranger and the Elf shared a smile, and then Faramir chuckled. The three grew silent then, listening the sounds of the woods around them. The forest was alive with the coming of twilight. Birds chirped their nightly calls, and the crickets sang a symphony without repose. The wind sent the verdant canopies above into a whisper of activity. Legolas breathed deeply, filling his body with this fresh air and his heart with the beautiful songs all around him. He had so longed for this!

The quiet moment passed. The hushed, muted throb of conversation rose behind them. The people had rested, and they were ready to continue. Faramir shared a quick word with Mablung, the man having trotted closer upon a mare as the lords had gazed ahead. Now the bearded ranger bowed to his lord and Legolas before leaving, calling orders to those beneath him to scout their road ahead. It was time to move onward.

"Well, safe journey to you, Faramir," Gimli said, turning to look upon the steward.

"And you too." The man smiled fondly at them, and the Elf and Dwarf returned his happiness. There was much between them, much that had been tested and proven true. And perhaps things yet lingered in the darkness of hearts that would later trouble them. The shadows ever threatened. But words were not needed to express their strength against them. Things could return to as they were. The simplicity of it all was greatly welcomed. Legolas and Faramir met each other's gazes, eased by the finality of this moment. The tension had faded, and quiet spoke to the return of their peace. Long did it last before Faramir spoke, and when he did, he took the Elf lord quite by surprise. "Shall we meet to discuss the new housing plans on the morrow, Legolas?"

The housing plans? He had nearly forgotten! Almost a year ago they had been arranging a meeting to decide on that particular matter in their reconstruction of Ithilien. More intentions interrupted by this war. Even with his astute mind, Legolas had not remembered such a mundane thing. Faramir truly was a keen man and a powerful lord. Still, some things were best left until a later time. The Elf smiled, watching as his people gathered behind him, ready to depart towards their lands. "You can don such eagerness if you wish, my friend," he responded, his voice light and whimsical, "but I intend to sleep tonight after a good meal. I doubt I shall think much on it."

"An Elf intending to sleep? I thought I would never see the day," Gimli quipped. "And how long will this respite last?"

Legolas shook his head at his friend's banter. Offering his best, deadpan expression, he responded, "Until I am no longer tired."

Gimli laughed, and Faramir chuckled. "Some other time, then," Faramir decided. He turned Hasufel as his wife's carriage approached, and they began to ride northward. "Good night!" he called. "My, it is good to be back!"

Éowyn poked her golden head from the curtains about the carriage as it rolled away. She smiled to them, waving. Legolas watched her, feeling absolved and alight with relief. In the presence of good friends, there was no need for such worry. Beneath all masks, a true heart would always know another.

The two watched until the steward and his wife were lost in the maze of trees. Their people followed behind, many waving and calling to the Elves warmly as they parted company. The children laughed, darting about the trees and legs of the adults as the long line proceeded to the town of Emyn Arnen. The Elves stood still, observing the company's slow departure. And when they were alone, the forest seemed quieter, emptier. And they as well began the last steps of their journey.

A peaceful quiet descended over the group as it traveled southward through the rejuvenated forests. The magic of the evening was enough to draw from any the need to sully the silence with unneeded palaver. The sun was setting, washing the land in gold. The world was perfect, endowed with a beauty that drew breath from bodies and caressed spirits with tender joy. They had fought for this. They remained, forging a new path, because of it. This world yet loved them. It was clear with every breath of wind, every rustle of the leaves, every quiet moment of majesty.

This world yet needed them.

And when the familiar sights of their growing, little colony appeared, a collective sigh of relief and happiness escaped the company of ancient beings. They entered through the gates, their faces stoic but their eyes alight, gazing at each tree, flower, and building with a fondness borne only from much worry and long absence. Home. Legolas knew it the moment Arod stepped through the gates of their meager colony. This was truly his home. The sense of it pulsed through him, vibrant and potent, and he felt renewed, hopeful and steady in this place. In his lands, his home. They really did belong here.

Much, much later, after homes had been reopened and new supplies packed into their proper locations, after business had been settled and set aside, after dinner had been made, served, and enjoyed, after the sun had set and night had blanketed the sky, he returned to his room. It was as he remembered it, familiar and welcoming, and he basked momentarily in the doorway, wondering anew at the long journey he had taken. Tentatively he stepped inside. The silence was heavy but fitting somehow, for he did not need sound or thought or feeling to know he was back. Not simply in body, but in mind and spirit as well. He had returned from a dark place, fighting and struggling and hurting, but now that he was here, looking at the simple furnishings and open balcony and drifting shadows, it felt as though he had never left at all.

He stepped slowly to the opened area of the balcony, watching as the warm night breezes caressed the curtains. And when he stepped outside, the world opened its arms to him. The sky was beautiful above him, dotted with so many twinkling stars, and the forests were serene. He stood still, feeling everything, knowing everything, understanding anew the love he held for this world. Slowly his fingers, strong again, came to rest upon the stone of the railing. The cold, polished surface was perfectly smooth. He thought back to the beginning, to the time and place and way this had all started. Autumn had truly come early, threatening and foreboding, but it could not last.

The wind rose, caressing his face and hair, and he raised an empty gaze southward. Vaguely he smelled the sea. A voice reached to him, speaking no words that he could understand, but he knew it for its gentle timbre as the trees creaked and rattled. It was a deeper tone, and as it collected itself into a familiar sound, he closed his eyes and reached across worlds to see his father.

_I am proud of you, my son._

"Legolas?"

He turned slowly, gracefully, basked in starlight and aglow with tranquility. The Dwarf stood, holding a dusty bottle of wine and two crystal glasses. The stout creature watched him with dark eyes. "Is everything alright?"

He smiled slowly, releasing a long breath, and his hands left the balcony as his heart slipped away from those white shores. "Yes," he answered. "Everything is alright."

Gimli smiled, reassured. "Good. Come have a drink with me."

The bottle was opened with a pop, and the aroma was savored. Red liquid spilled into the two glasses like blood, and each held his thoughtfully as they sat in silence. The quiet lasted a very long time. They drank, calm and almost completed. Almost.

Legolas drew a deep breath and looked up at his friend. "I would like to speak with you," he announced quietly.

Gimli raised an eyebrow and lowered his half-emptied glass from his lips. "Oh? Of what?"

"Anything. Everything." He paused thoughtfully, feeling the familiar sense of dread and pain but yet he was unafraid. He knew he needed to do this. For so long had he hidden what he felt, doubting himself and fearing imperfection. He would do so no more. He owed this to himself, and to Gimli. Dear Gimli, who had stood by his side in his darkest hours, who had tolerated his selfish seclusion, who had bolstered his spirit in ignorance and anger. Who had permitted him his privacy, even when it was not at all what he needed.

A dear friend, who knew him better than he knew himself and who loved him despite it.

"I have asked much of you," Legolas admitted. "I demand your support yet deny you my trust. My memories remain a haze of thought and action, yet I do remember you stood beside me in my darkest moments, offering your love though I did naught but refuse your confidence. I am sorry." Gimli opened his mouth to speak, but the Elf refused to relinquish his control. "No, I will have you hear this. I… Long have I strove for perfection, to prove that I am worthy. I did not know what possessed me in such a fruitless quest, but I was certain that I could never allow myself to be a burden. I could never admit my weakness. I could never show that I needed aid." The Elf looked down to the glass in his hands, watching as the pool of red wine swallowed the darkness. "I still am not certain why I feel this way, but I think I am beginning to understand."

For a long moment, Gimli did not speak. Then a voice rumbled from the shadows. "The journey to achieve a dream carries us all," he softly said. "It can be a blinding flaw or a blazing strength. It led Aragorn to victory and Holis to death. A dream drives you and Faramir, Éowyn and Lady Arwen. Even me."

Legolas smiled slowly, lifting his bright eyes to look upon his friend. "You dream, Gimli?"

"Of course."

"What do you dream?"

Silence. Then the bottle was tipped and more wine spilled into the glass. "That we remain together, until the very end of my days. That you are free of your past pains. That what I promised you before proves true."

The Elf's face fractured slightly in confusion. "What you promised before?"

"That the end is inevitable, but the bond between us cannot be ended."

They were silent again, each struggling to overcome the shadows that now seemed pressing. Then Legolas found his strength again, hotter and truer than ever before, and reached across the gap between them to grasp his friend upon the knee. "I am here, am I not?"

So simple, these words were! Yet slowly Gimli understood, and a smile spread across his face. The dark of his eyes twinkled in happiness, and he chuckled. His rough hand closed over the Elf's flawless, ageless fingers and squeezed. "That you are," he amended, a laugh in his voice. "That you are!" He took his glass again and drank freely. When he was finished, he settled himself more comfortably into his chair. "Come then, Elf. Tell me of your father. I should like to hear tales of the fierce Elf my sire scorned."

Legolas smiled, and then he began to speak, free at last from the confines of his heart. Long into the night did the two friends talk. Of anything and everything. Of nothing at all. The bottle was emptied, and hearts were filled with warmth, relief, and truth. They conversed until exhaustion borne from fine food, wine, and a long day simply overtook them both. Then they slept, free from dreams right or wrong, and found instead a path before them that headed out into their world, through the lands and leaves and loves and lives, and finally to the sea.

_This above all – to thine own self be true_  
_And it must follow, as the night the day,_  
_Thou canst not then be false to any man._  
_Farewell – my blessing season this in thee._

—  _William Shakespeare,_  Hamlet,  _Act I.3_

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, as they say, is that. When I first wrote this story, it took me more than a year and roughly 530 pages to complete it. It is the longest, most involved tale I have ever written, and I am glad to have devoted this much time and effort to J.R.R. Tolkien's marvelous world. I did not write this work with the intent of it being easy to understand or read. Fundamentally, my choice in format with large portions of the story dedicated to a single character perspective was done to connect you as a reader to Legolas, Faramir, and Aragorn in a way that blinded you as they were blinded, confused you as they were confused, and made you feel and learn as they did.
> 
> But, most of all, I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Weaving a complex plot has never been so much fun. It's been a long road for you as well, and I'm grateful you decided to walk it with me.
> 
> I must credit the character of Holis to Christopher Marlowe's unique Tamburlaine, featured in his play _Tamburlaine, the Great_. The inspiration for a man with such amazing power to make the world as he saw fit, with such confidence and zeal, came from this interesting work. And, of course, I must thank J.R.R. Tolkien, Peter Jackson, and the entire cast and crew of the _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy for bringing that beautiful world to life.
> 
> Most of all, thanks to all my readers. Know that I read all of your reviews, comments, complaints, and compliments and take them all to heart. Feedback is a writer's greatest asset, and you have blessed me with your time and attention.
> 
> If you are interested in more of my works, I have a large collection of stories inspired by Marvel's _The Avengers_ , as well as fiction for _Pirates of the Caribbean_ and other fandoms that have caught my attention over the years. It's all posted here and on FanFiction.net. Once again, thank you so much! Hope to see you again.
> 
> Feel free to follow me on Twitter (@thegraytigress) for story updates, announcements, and discussions! And come find me on [tumblr](http://thegraytigress.tumblr.com/)!


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